


Make Me Someone New

by faithlethalhane



Series: MMSN Universe [1]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlethalhane/pseuds/faithlethalhane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows how soulmates go. There’s a soul out there that is indefinably and inseparably bound to you for the rest of time, meeting in new lifetimes to relearn each other, only to have Death take you up in the unending cycle once again. Sounds great for a human. Not so much for a vampire. Death forgot you. Death left you to remember her over and over and over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Being Human (part 1.1)

_1686 - age 6_

She piques your interest right away. You do not know her name. You do not know her worth. But from the very early days of your childhood, she has always seemed to appear. Always seemed to catch your eye.

Every Wednesday you find yourself peeking around the corner to watch her skip down the hall, tugging fruitlessly on her father’s hand and blathering incessantly about some nonsense you don’t care about. It’s the _way_ she talks that captures your attention. Bubbly and excited, fast and muddled like she’s running a race with herself to get the words out as fast as she can. Like her tongue is just tripping over the syllables because it can’t _possibly_ keep up with how fast her thoughts are running.

You cannot fathom how much energy it takes to be that excited about everything.

She’s all bouncing curls and bouncing steps and bouncing laugh.

Seeing her for those few moments every day always leaves you smiling before you can remember to be proper.

You want to be her friend. You don’t know how.

Father tells you simply talk to her. They are residents in your estate; she shouldn’t be the scary one. He says that should be _you_.

“Who is she?” you ask him one day.

He ruffles your hair until you laugh and push him back with all your might (he barely moves).

“Her father is a baron, child. They spend off seasons here.”

You glance back down the hall. “May I speak to her?”

He laughs.

“You may speak to whomever you please.”

You know he’s right but it doesn’t make the nerves bubbling around in your belly disappear. She might not like you. At least currently, she didn’t know you enough to not like you.

You think maybe you’ll wait.

_1687 - age 7_

You find her sprawled out in the grass, giggling and rolling around. You can’t help but stare, up on the tips of your toes just to see over the hedges. It’s just so _peculiar._

Her eyes are scrunched shut, and she throws her arms out to the sides, palms splayed out, petting the grass.

She opens her eyes a little, squinting straight up, and you bite your lip, chewing slightly on it as you put your hands against the hedge for support.

And then she starts singing.

It isn’t a language you recognize, though you know she speaks your own. You’ve heard it many times.

Still, you’re mesmerized as she sings, happily with purpose and intent, squinting up into the sun. Soon, her enthusiasm fades, lips turning downward as she trails off mid-word. She props herself up halfway, frowning at the sun.

You have to readjust your footing to keep your head above the hedge, and it’s enough to draw her attention.

She sits up the rest of the way when she sees you.

“Is something wrong?”

Your heart jolts in fear. What does one say when caught staring?

“Your dress…” you say lamely, “it’s pretty.”

It must not have been too terrible a comeback for she smiles widely, giggling as she runs her hands over the slowly fading pleats. You follow the movement, and you can’t take your eyes off the green stains by her knees. Father would kill you if you did that to your clothes. Mother might too.

“Thanks. Daddy says ladies dress nice for their birthday.”

You barely hear what she said. You’re too focused on that silly grass-stained skirt, mind whirring with ways to save her from getting in trouble. Her expression is deflating, though, and your heart sinks with it because clearly you’ve done something wrong.

“Would you like to maybe…do something together?” you ask.

She smiles crookedly. “Like a birthday adventure?”

“Uhh...sure.”

“Okay.”

She reaches out and takes your hand. You’re startled.

“Come on,” she exclaims, tugging your arm. You stumble as you try to follow, hesitating as she ducks under the hedges. You know it will muss your hair but you _want_ to and you can’t just...let her down. Not so soon after your introduction.

Wait. Had you even made an introduction?

"I'm-"

She pulls you hard enough to drag you through the hedges. You cut yourself off with a surprised noise, stumbling to keep up, to keep holding her hand.

You emerge from the bushes only to be tugged again.

“Hey, no, wait!” you burst out.

She halts immediately and looks back. “Yes?”

But, standing there, you suddenly feel foolish for stopping her for something so insignificant.

“I’m...Mircalla,” you say unsurely.

For a moment, it looks like she might laugh, the corners of her mouth twitching up. Your chest tightens slightly. She must think you ridiculous.

“I know,” she says simply.

You blink. “Oh.”

Instead of the mean laughter you expected, she smiles brightly. “Your Dad owns the estate, doesn’t he?”

You nod. “He does.”

“Okay,” she says.

And that is that. She does not introduce herself, which is fine enough you suppose. (You _do_ already know her name.)

She squeezes your hand and starts running again, and you can better follow her lead this time. You spend the afternoon adventuring around the garden, weaving through the different hedges as though they were mazes and you were explorers.

It isn’t until a servant finds you with a snack in hand do you realize it’s probably past lunch time.

She flips her shoes and stockings off, napkin full of dried fruit in one hand, the other flat to the stone ledge of the fountain to steady her as she hops onto it.

She stands there for a moment until she’s sure she won’t fall before offering her hand to you.

You grin and take it, pulling yourself up. With some difficulty, you managed to slip your shoes off with your one free hand, but your stockings fight you back. Frowning, you tilt your head back and drop the rest of your fruit pieces into your mouth to free up your other hand.

When you turn back around, you find her smiling at your struggling.

“What?” you prompt.

She smirks and drops her gaze down to her feet. “Nothing. You’re funny.”

“Really?”

She giggles and you feel like you’ve won something.

You smile in response and sit yourself down on the fountain edge, dropping the stockings into the grass behind you. She does the same, but she dunks her feet right into the water. You don’t see the harm, so you do too.

The water ripples away from your ankles every time you move, even just a tiny little bit. It’s pretty, but it’s not enough to distract you from the slightly too thick silence.

“May I ask you something?” you ask, swishing your feet in the pool of the fountain.

“Maaaaybe,” she says brightly.

“What were you singing earlier?”

She licks her lips and tips a handful of dried fruit into her mouth. “That’s easy,” she says as she chews. “Rain song.”

“Huh?” you ask, lifting your foot up into the air and watching the water rush off it.

“I wanted it to rain,” she explains. “I like rain.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Not the storming sort,” she clarifies. “Just...rain.” She looks up at the sky. “Makes me feel new.”

“Yeah?” you ask, wiggling your toes under the water.

She nods.

You bite your lip to keep from giggling at the idea that pops into your mind. You kick your foot up hard, sending water spraying up onto both of you. She shrieks happily, leaning away and giggling.

“I accept your challenge, Lady Karnstein.” She slips off the edge of the fountain lip to wade into the water.

“Uhh...wh-”

She bends down and dips her hand into water and throws it up. You cover your face and shout. “Hey!”

She giggles and you love it.

“Come on, Mircalla.” She waves you encouragingly forward.

You hesitate.

Looking down at your feet, you kick them a little. Having your feet in the water wasn’t a big deal. You could just take your stockings off. You don’t want to ruin your dress.

“Mircalla?” she asks, and the hint of disappointment you catch makes your heart sink.

You breathe in once, holding it and slipping into the pool with her.

The water comes up to your knees, and you wade clumsily away from her as she follows your lead with a jump and a happy clap. Spinning around you skim the top of the water with your hand to send a wave her way, but she doesn’t slow down. She just runs right into you with all her weight.

You lose your balance and both of you fall into the water. You surface with a gasp, and as she comes up giggling, you find yourself smiling so hard it almost hurts.

“ _Mircalla?!_ ” you hear your governess shout in horror. “What in _Heavens_ are you doing?”

Your smile falls. Everything a lady should _not_ do comes rushing back, panic fluttering in your chest. You cannot catch your breath for a moment.

She comes to your rescue. "She had to, ma'am."

Your governess looks at her in confusion; you do the same. What was she doing?

"I beg your pardon?"

"Legally bound," she says so matter-of-factly even you believe her. "She promised to do whatever I said for my birthday. Promises can't be broken."

She doesn't break her stare from the governess. She doesn't waver even a little. She looks like she truly believes it to be law.

You expect Miss Lola to be cross. To tell her how silly she sounds. But instead she forces a smile. "Well. We cannot have Lady Karnstein going back on her word, now can we, Miss?" Still, she gestures tightly for you to get out.

“Yes, alright,” you nod.

Turning back to her, you smile shyly and wave. “I...had a good day with you.”

She grins. “Me too!” She runs (wades) quickly over to you and throws her arms around you. “Thank you.”

“Oh.” You barely have time to think of catching her, but your arms do it automatically. “Happy Birthday,” you say into her shoulder, squeezing her a little tighter before dropping her back down. She smiles one more time at you.

“Bye!”

_1691 - age 11_

You’re eleven and scared to die.

You don’t need to hear the words to know the truth. It’s etched across your father’s face as he exits your mother’s quarters.

She didn’t wake up.

You scramble to your feet before he can reach you, running straight down the hall toward the grounds. Turning the corner, you slam right into her, knocking the both of you to the ground.

“Mircalla?” she asks groggily, rubbing her eyes and propping herself up to a sitting position.

“No, I-I just…” you stutter, clambering awkwardly to your feet as you wipe furiously at your eyes to hide the tears. “Bye.”

You don’t look back as you run for the door to the gardens.

Heading for the stables, you harness your father’s horse with unsteady hands, barely tall enough to hoist yourself onto it. Just as you are about to depart, just _run_ anywhere, you hear your name being called.

You are startled to see her face at the stable entrance.

“Mircalla, _wait_ -”

“Go away!”

The last thing you want is for her to see you like this.

You pull for the horse to turn and dig your heels in until he runs out the opposite door. The wind feels good as it bites against your cheeks. You need some pain. Maybe it can drown out the screaming in your chest.

You guide your horse to the edge of the grounds at a sprint, barrelling through the loosely packed forest until you reach the lake. It is a barrier between your estate and the commoners’ land. No one comes out here.

Dismounting the horse, you tie it to a smaller tree.

The emotions in your head are at war, throwing you back and forth between understanding and complete loss. Because you _know_ she is dead. You know what that means. You’ve known it existed for a while now, but...you don’t...believe it? No, that’s not it. You believe it.

You sit down on the rocky shore, watching the slow ebb and flow of the water’s edge close to your feet.

You pick up a rock, rubbing the smooth surface beneath your thumb just to fidget with something. Just to keep your mind focused on moving your thumb back and forth across it. When all you are really doing is trying to ignore the aching in your jaw and the stinging in your eyes.

You don’t know what’s got you so tripped up. She was sick and she died. Just like everybody else.

( _so why does it feel like if you go back, she’ll be waiting for you?_ )

No matter how you rationalize it, your mind accepts both theories as reality. She is dead but she is not. She is not coming back but maybe she never left. And it’s _ridiculous_.

Frustrated tears well in your eyes, and you chuck the rock as hard as you can at the water. It sprays up an unceremoniously small amount of water and disappears beneath the surface.

Your jaw aches painfully from the _real_ tears you fight to stem, and you bow your head and clench your teeth.

But the sound of a horse approaching distracts you. You wipe underneath your eyes a few times, clearing your throat and hunching back over, staring out over the water.

Her footsteps are quiet, hesitant even, as she approaches. She stops a few paces behind you, and even though you cannot see her, you can feel the tension. The uncertainty.

“I...I brought you a cloak. It was getting cold without the sun, so…”

You don’t respond, and the silence is heavy, even with the sound of moving water to interrupt it. Slowly, she takes a step toward you, and with gentle hands, she drapes the cloak around you, rubbing your shoulders absently before withdrawing.

You hear an intake of breath like she is going to speak, but she pauses, waiting.

( _for what?_ )

“Sorry to disturb you,” she finally whispers, gravel scraping under her toes as she pivots to leave.

You’ve never felt so physically drained that you cannot even find the strength to speak, but despite how much your body says _stay_ your mouth stays apathetically shut, like all the tension you had been using to stem the tears now locked your jaw from calling to her.

You reach out to grab the hem of her dress. She staggers, but allows herself to be pulled down beside you. She crouches awkwardly beside you, unable to sit down because you’re still holding the hem of her skirt. You can’t let it go.

For the love of everything, you cannot find the right muscles to release it because all your energy is focused on keeping from breaking down.

She puts her hand gently on your shoulder. “I’m...so sorry,” she whispers hesitantly.

The simple act of sympathy is enough to rip all the strength from you through your chest. You collapse yourself into her, hiding your face in her lap as you weep.

It hurts, even as a satisfying pressure builds in your forehead from the sheer force of your sobs. It’s what you needed. Her arms around you and nothing but the sounds of your cries echoing into the still night.

It’s what you needed, but it isn’t enough to heal you.

As you come up for air, her hand is stroking your back and the waves are still crashing, and you think it so terribly _unfair_ that the world is still moving when your world might as well be over.

Swallowing, you wipe furiously at your eyes, pulling away from her and slumping back onto the ground, hunched shoulders and deep frown as you glare out over the water.

She adjusts herself beside you until she is close, but not touching you.

Silence overwhelms you once her rustling stops. Maybe it is the silence or the cold, but in that moment, she is too far away from you. You scoot the final few inches until your knee bumps hers, and you drop your head onto her bony shoulder, nuzzling in adjustment until you find a comfortable spot.

She doesn’t move for a long time, not even acknowledging you against her.

You breathe as quietly as you can, hiccupping only once in awhile, less and less until you’re sure it will not happen again.

She hooks her fingers together, tugging against herself as she thinks. She doesn’t speak for a long time, and it is as if she is working up the courage.

“I wish to tell you something,” she says finally, uncertain.

You glance up at her as best you can.

“You mustn't laugh.”

You weren’t exactly in the laughing mood, but she looks genuinely worried. You nod half-heartedly without lifting your head from her shoulder.

“When my mother died, father told me she was in a better place, and that I was selfish to want her back.”

You’re not quite sure what you would have laughed at until you realize she is not finished.

“I know now he meant she was with God, but...when it happened, I didn’t understand. And so I always pictured her exploring the world. Healthy and happy and…” She hesitates. “I haven’t been able to rid myself of the thought that one day I might run into her.”

She bites her lip and glances worriedly down at you.

Sure it’s quite the idealistic notion, but foolish? You couldn’t say that, seeing as testing the thought out on your own mother has already lightened the pressure against your chest.

“I don’t ever believe I’ll see her again,” she clarifies slowly. “Merely that maybe...God will give her back to someone else. And then maybe I could have her too.”

You blink a few times, suddenly aware of how dry your eyes are.

( _when had your crying stopped?_ )

“And I think,” she says even quieter, “that if you’re meant to find her again, you will.”

_1693 - age 13_

It’s the fall before your thirteenth birthday and you miss her.

The house just feels empty when she’s gone, even though everyone else is still around.

Everything moves slower and nothing exciting happens. You find yourself more and more tucked into your habit of hiding away in the dozens of unused rooms, watching the single dusty road for any sign of a carriage.

The rest of the time you read the world away. Any book you can get your hands on; you always request some from the man who delivers food to the estate from the closest town.

He always asks what you want and you don’t know what to tell him. So he just brings back whatever he can find. Sometimes they’re written in words you do not know, entire languages you want to unlock.

Sometimes they speak of laws, dry and empty, but you feel accomplished when you can piece together some semblance of meaning from them (even if it isn't the whole picture).

You think you most enjoy the stories. Grand and romantic. You want to sweep someone off their feet the way some of the protagonists can.

Could women sweep?

Either way, the books kept coming and the piles of them kept growing in towers about your room. Father didn't like the mess.

You liked it better than the alternative. The dozens of volumes would fit perfectly among your mother’s collection. But that would involve you actually stepping foot into your mother’s wing.

_1695 - age 15_

_“Cal,”_ she hisses, “ _No_ , we’re not doing this.”

Instead of stopping, you tug a little on her hand as your destination approaches.

“ _Mircalla Karnstein,_ we _cannot_ be here and you know it.”

You smirk and glance back; she’s nervously checking behind her as you drag her, eyes darting over the doors you pass in fear she’ll see someone, _anyone._ You bite your lip to suppress your laugh, shaking your head silently in disbelief at how cute she can be.

“Relax, cutie.” She huffs before you can say anything more, and you chuckle to yourself. “Where’d my adventurous girl go?”

When you glance back this time, you meet her stern glare. It’s ridiculous, and you snort before you can stop yourself. Her eyes narrow, and you try appeasing her with a gentle squeeze of your hand before pulling her silently to the big wooden door at the back of the residence. Holding up your candle to it, you fiddle with the “borrowed _”_ key, fitting it into the lock and twisting.

The door swings open easily and you pull her through, only to find it much more difficult to close behind you. Sighing, you set your candle on the floor to take full advantage of your strength.

It takes the both of you to push the door closed, hand over hand on the iron handle and leaning with all your weight.

“I’m too young to die, Cal,” she whispers, strained. “Fourteen is far from a full life.”

“Father won’t kill you for something so small,” you protest. “Calm yourself.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes harder. As the door clicks shut, the draft changes directions, blowing out your candle and plunging you into darkness.

“Mircalla?” she asks, so quietly you almost miss it.

“Yeah?”

She doesn’t answer. You hear her rustling around in the dark, and it isn’t until her hand brushes against your chest do you realize she was searching for you.

She exhales in relief at the feel of you and runs her hands up your body until she finds your shoulders and pulls you close.

You smirk into the darkness. “Are you afraid?”

It’s almost as if you can hear her frown. “Maybe.”

You chuckle. “You afraid something might...eat you?” you tease.

“Hold your tongue,” she admonishes, swatting at your shoulder.

You take hold of her hand and playfully bite down on it with an emphasized growl.

“I despise you,” she mumbles.

You hug her close and leave it at that.

With some less than graceful navigating, you feel your way toward the kitchen and pantry hidden just below the dining hall.

It's unbelievably dark as you walk along the hall, the only thing guiding you is the stone of the walls. She clasps your hand tightly, her other hand clutching your wrist.

The wall ends and you count your steps; fifteen and you should be there.

You stop, feeling blindly around in front of you until you feel the wooden edge of the main kitchen counter. You carefully guide her to your place, putting her hand on the table and covering it gently with yours.

"You mustn't move, darling, I shall be back."

"Cal," she whispers.

You feel your way up her shoulders to hold them squarely, and you naturally lean in to kiss her hair. "It won't take long at all. Just count to twenty and I’ll be back presently."

She exhales shakily, but you feel her nod against you.

You use the edge of the table to lead you to the other side of the room, and to your surprise she counts aloud. It's cute.

You’re lucky you have some kind of idea where everything in the pantry is, because you underestimated how quickly twenty seconds passes under pressure. Five and you barely find the cupboard. Ten and you’re fumbling around the shelf for the tell-tale sound of crinkling foil of the chocolate. Fifteen and you’re scrambling back, hip knocking against the table edge to get back to her. Twenty and you’re throwing yourself at her, giggling as you collapse in her arms, spinning around.

Something creaks in the distance and she shushes you between her own giggles, lips against your cheek, pulling you back to lean against the wall with her. You cannot help the laughs still caught in your chest, and she feels around until her hand presses against your mouth. It mutes you enough for you to hear _other_ hushed voices.

Your eyes widen. ( _you wish you could see her._ )

“Come on,” you whisper.

You slide your fingers down her arm until you find her hand, lacing your fingers between hers and tugging once more.

With some effort, you maneuver toward the back of the kitchen, guiding her up the servants’ spiral staircase with your hand on her back. You emerge into the dining room, and both of you are in a sprint across it, down the hall past window after window until you hear more stirring.

Quickly, she ducks through the nearest door and you follow, collapsing against the door together.

You wait and listen, breathing heavy. The footsteps echo nearer until they fade into the background.

She sighs in relief.

“That was close.”

She looks at you for a moment before focusing on the room. “What is this?” she asks.

“Father’s study.”

She walks further into the room, taking in every detail, eyes wondrous. Her fingers dust along the top of his desk as she circles it. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

You hum your agreement as you follow her. “But,” you contest, pulling open one of the drawers, “I know something even more amazing.”

You brandish your father’s extra bottle of brandy as you hop to sit on the table. She gasps.

“This is too much delinquency for one evening.”

You smirk and pull the off the crystal top. “Suit yourself.”

She narrows her eyes at you as you bring it to your lips. It burns in your throat, even with just one swig, and you choke it down. It feels warm as it travels in your chest and in your stomach. The world feels a little bit lighter.

You place the bottle beside you on the table, leaning back on your hands. She eyes the bottle.

She looks like she might actually reach for it, but you distract her. You pull the chocolate from beneath the shoulder strap of your stay. Her smile is bright and she steps closer.

“Here,” you murmur, handing it to her. “Portion it between us.”

She accepts it. You walk to the drapes, pulling one aside, light from the moon spilling across the floor. You tether it back and return to her side.

When you return, she’s holding her piece tightly in her hand. You climb back onto the table and pick up your piece. She carefully walks to your other side, wedging herself against the far wall and slumping slightly against it.

It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen her in months.

“Enjoy, m’lady,” you say, bowing your head.

She giggles and brings the chocolate to her lips.

But she hesitates.

“It’s okay,” you assure her. She looks at you nervously.

Smirking, you bite off the corner of your chocolate square. It tastes like heaven might, and you have to close your eyes.

When you open your eyes, you feel as though you are experiencing something else. It may be the shot of brandy or it may be the bliss of chocolate, but you feel almost out of yourself.

You’re just sitting there really. She’s standing in the corner, leaned up against the wall, her ankles crossed and her eyes closed as she savors the taste of your father’s most expensive chocolate. She tilts her head back and it thuds against the wooden door behind her. She doesn’t notice, too lost in her enjoyment of the stolen treat. She swallows, delight colouring her features as she laughs breathily, almost as if she can’t believe she is here in your father’s study eating chocolate. _Chocolate_. Brought from your father’s favourite merchant in Belgium, no less.

You hardly notice her glee. The light shines perfectly on her, the moonlight bathing her soft cheeks, her pale neck and the jutting edge of her jaw. She looks new.

She laughs again, a mischievous one deep in her throat. “You’re forgiven, Mircalla. Forget I ever doubted you.”

You blink. You feel sluggish, fighting to ignore the strange stirring in your stomach and focus on what she is saying. You vaguely register a response slipping from your lips, your typical tease about how you are always right, but your voice sounds strange. Something is climbing up inside you, digging into the depths of your chest. It seizes your heart and your lungs and, for a second, you can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe, you can’t move, you can’t do anything but look at her.

Your heart pounds harder with every passing moment and you know you should take a breath but you can’t, you can’t, you can’t. Your throat feels closed off and your chest tight, the pressure so great you aren’t sure you can physically take in any air.

She looks at you then, her head tilted to one side and the ghost of a smile playing over her lips.

You nearly choke. _God,_ it’s beautiful.

She.

She is beautiful.

“Cal?”

You swallow and wave dismissively. Your cheeks feel hotter.

“Nothing, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure…?”

She reaches out and runs her fingers over your shoulder and down with the lightest of touches. It sucks the air right out back out of your chest and you don’t understand it. You don’t understand and you’re scared and so, so confused.

You can feel your heart pressing against your sternum and you think maybe you could be ill. But the room stops spinning every time you look away from her.

“I-I’m fine,” you say, forcing out a laugh. “I just, I took a bigger drink than usual.”

( _no you hadn’t_ )

“I think I’m...going to turn in for the night, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” She squeezes your arm as you slip off the table. “And Mircalla?”

You manage to look back at her long enough to see the concern in her eyes, but also the contentment. “Thank you for the...exciting evening.”

You don’t have to force a smile this time. “For you, anything, darling.”

Slipping from her grasp, you exit hastily.

You feel too wired to go to bed. Too caught in the thrumming echoing inside your chest and in your fingertips and toes and a few other places you weren’t quite sure about.

But you need to get away from there, so you walk. You walk, and walk until you find yourself in front of the big oak doors you hadn’t been by in years. You used to waste hours in here, days if you could convince your mother.

Cautiously, you crack the door open enough to fit through, fumbling for the candle you know is on the table. You light it and lift it up to get a better look.

Your mother’s library.

It’s dustier than before, but it’s still the same as you remember. Shelves of books, all different sizes and colors.

A particular book catches your eye, discarded on the floor. You walk over and pick it up. It was the one your mother had been reading you last. Not that she had not taught you how to read. It was just something you loved. Listening to her. Sitting in her lap and hearing the story unfold through her dictation.

You smile at the memory.

Carrying the book to the only chair in the room, big and comfy, you set the candle down on the small table beside it and curl up on the plush cushions. It smells like comfort.

You open the book to the silk bookmark spread across the page, and within a few words, the rest of the story comes rushing back. Before you know it, you’re nose deep in the pages, reading this grand story like it was your reason for existing. It goes by in a blur and then you are done, staring at the back cover entirely unsure what to do.

So you pick up another one.

It isn’t until halfway through do you realize you can only see yourself as the protagonist. Normal, you believe, but the question of narcissism lingers on your tongue.

As the story progresses, though, from that of singularity to that of courtship, it is not just you that plays this plot out in your head, but also your partner in crime.

Her smile drowns out the image of the male suitor, more easily than you thought possible.

At first you play it off as poor writing, the portrayal of him too unrelatable for you. But two books later, you lose faith in that excuse. For it is not simply who the character is that is bland. Quite the opposite. You find yourself enjoying the story with her in it. More and more until you realize, this story, this _love_ story, could be what you very well desire in your life.

No, not could be. You shake your head as you allow yourself to think it.

 _This is exactly what you have been waiting for_.

The realization hits you hard, and you have to close the book in your lap to really take it in. The way the book is written, the way the protagonist speaks of her suitor is how you feel for her.

It has to be, with how the words resonate so loudly in you. Almost as if you can still see the words scrolling across your vision.

You love her?

It seems hasty. ( _maybe?_ )

You _fancy_ her.

You bite your lip and stare at a spot on the floor.

 _(how are you supposed to face her now?_ )

It’s something you can figure out in the morning.

You reach to pull the candle closer to the edge of the table, only to find it depleted completely. The room is lit, though, and when you look back up you feel your heart sinking at the sight of sunlight peeking from between the closed curtains.

It _is_ morning.

Putting your head in your hands, you sigh deeply.

Feigning illness would have to suffice.

Your mind says stand and your body says no. Your limbs feel heavy and it seems as though you’ve been woven into the seat itself sometime during the night. You don’t think you could stand up even if you wanted to. (And you _don’t,_ it smells like Mother and of home.)

A few more slow inhales later, you stand wearily, placing the book on the seat and heading for your quarters.

_1696 - age 16_

She makes funny faces at you while you get your portrait painted. Sixteen, your father says, is something to celebrate. Something to tell the world.

Every time the painter requests you look at him, she puffs her cheeks out, crosses her eyes, and your stomach physically hurts at how hard you are working to keep from smiling. You apparently weren’t doing a good job, for he cleared his throat and you jumped, pulling your lips down much further than necessary before flattening them out again.

 _Neutral_.

Knowing that she had reached her limit, she blows you a kiss before exiting.

You ignore the way your stomach clenches at the gesture.

When you are finished, however, she spends the rest of the day prattling on about a boy she is suddenly interested in.

It certainly dampens your mood.

_1697 - age 17_

The rain rouses you from your sleep. It crashes like thousands of soldiers marching along the roof and your heart jumps in anticipation. It hasn’t rained in months.

You pull the blankets back and slip out of bed, grabbing your robe on the way out the door. Padding down the empty corridors, the echoing sound of rainfall covers the sound of your steps. You bite your lip to contain your smile as you approach her door. You try unsuccessfully to fix your hair, tightening the ties of your robe around you before you slip into her room.

Even with the loud beating against her windows, she’s out cold. Her cute mouth is open as she sleeps, lost in whatever world has whisked her away tonight.

Gently, you sit down in the negative space the curve of her side makes, right at the edge of the bed.

“Darling, wake up,” you whisper, prodding her side. She barely responds, her only movement the closing of her mouth.

You put your hand on her shoulder, pausing to see if she would wake herself before shaking her slightly. “Darling-”

She blinks a few times, squinting up at you through sleep-soaked eyes. “Mircalla?” She asks groggily, voice scratchy and unpracticed. “Go to back to bed.”

She closes her eyes once again and buries her face in her pillow.

You gently shake her shoulder again before brushing her hair behind her ear and running your knuckles along the edge of her cheek, the only exposed part of her face. She groans.

“Can’t you hear it?” you persist, and her shoulder slumps in defeat as she indulges your unspoken request and turns her head slightly to listen.

A few moments pass before she rolls back onto her side, inspecting you where you sit at the edge of her bed. “Is that…?” she trails off, looking to you for confirmation. You nod and her eyes brighten, instantly more awake, stirring something in your stomach.

 _It’s empathy_ , you reason with yourself, _mere empathy. You’re excited that she’s excited._

She sits up, and you stand to allow her to stand as well. She runs for the window, pressing her hands against the glass, forehead and nose squishing to it as well. “It’s beautiful.”

You chew at your lip nervously before walking up behind her and tangling a few of your fingers loosely with hers. “Care to join me?”

She looks at you for a moment, and you read something of uncertainty in her eyes. It passes quickly though, and she nods, gently letting go of your hand and running for the door. “Race you.”

You gasp and laugh mischievously, running to catch up with her.

She wins, but as soon as you’re out on the back terrace, you run right for her, scooping her up into your arms. She shrieks, and you spin her around, rain already soaking through your shift. She buries her face against your chest for a moment, sheltering herself just long enough before squirming from your arms and running along the marble steps.

“Doesn’t it feel glorious?” she asks, spinning herself around a stone column, face tilted toward the sky.

Your heart smiles at how happy she looks.

“It does.”

You walk down the steps and onto the gravel, squishing it beneath your toes as you stroll along the path. She skips up behind you, linking her arm through yours. “I shouldn’t feel so happy when God cries,” she says.

“I’m sure He won’t mind,” you laugh. “It nourishes all this.”

She looks around at all the flowers, all the trees and grass and she hums, tilts her head up again and smiles at the sky.

“I just feel so new.”

It reminds you of when you were kids.

She’s so lost in herself and the rain she doesn’t notice you bend down to scoop water into your hand and slosh as much at her as you can.

“ _Mircalla,_ ” she shouts.

You collapse onto the ground you’re laughing so hard.

She stops mid-yell to look at you and she just looks so _tiny_ and _angry_ it has you in stitches, grasping at your stomach to try and relieve _any_ of the pain you’re causing yourself.

She puts her hands on her hips and you lose it all over again, crying your laughter, the rain washing away all your tears.

This time _you_ are the one caught unaware as she jumps hard into the puddle, sending a wave of murky rain water crashing into you.

You gasp, frozen as the shock lingers. As it fades, you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t start something you cannot finish, dear.”

She bounces on her toes, and the way she bites her lip tells you she’s excited, but she covers it to feign fear instead, turning on her heels and sprinting away.

The rain just comes down harder as you chase after her.

An hour or so later, you can feel the cold and the wet sinking deep into your skin. Even your bones feel cold.

Coincidentally, lightning hits about the same time as your fatigue, and she yelps in surprise as the first crack of thunder whips across the sky.

She reaches for you instantly, and you hug her close as you guide her back toward the house at a brisk jog.

The both of you tumble in a mess of shivering limbs and dripping hair through her bedroom door. She finds you a spare shift while you search for towels. And ever so politely, the both of you change, each on one side of her screen, from the soaked through bedclothes to the new ones. You finish first, walking over to the still visible window and sitting on the floor in front of it.

You hear her pull the screen back a little, and you look over your shoulder.

She emerges, towel to her head as she tries fruitlessly to dry it.

She walks over and sits beside you. You wrap your towel around her and you, and she rests her weight against you.

You sit like that for a long while, shoulder to shoulder, head against head, just staring out into the raging storm all whistling wind and flashing thunder and sideways rain. It’s almost hypnotic, and you would be completely taken were it not for the feeling of her beside you, trembling but getting warmer, so close against you.

You feel pulled to her.

“Mircalla…” she says softly. She is hesitant. “Why does my heart feel like the carnage of a storm?”

You keep your head resting against her, nuzzling it ever so slightly in comfort.

“Does it feel so now?”

She licks her lips and glances downward.

“I….I don’t know.”

The pull is back, deep in your chest. Telling you, be closer, be _part_ of her. The magnetism tugging against you is screaming at you, comfort her, but you have no idea how.

She shudders again and hugs her knees to her chest. It’s enough to release you from your hold. To remind you just how tired you are.

You yawn and she smiles as if she hadn’t even said anything. “Have I worn you out, finally?” she asks.

“Yes, darling, you have.”

She stands, extending her hand to help you up as well. “That may be a first.”

You smirk at her as you head for her bed, collapsing down onto the foot of it. “There were many a day in our childhood I was fighting to keep up.”

“Really?” she asks as she wanders closer, inspecting herself in the mirror as she passes it. You catch her frown. “Ferdinand would not approve of this hairstyle,” she mumbles.

His name always feels like a knife in your gut.

“I think it’s rather charming,” you say.

She takes it as humor. ( _It wasn’t._ )

“You’ve a real wit, Cal,” she says unamused as she lays herself beside you.

You are going to make light when she shivers again. You feel almost back to normal, so it worries you.

“Darling, cover yourself,” you berate, sitting up to help her climb beneath her blankets. She pouts at you as you pull them up to cover her lap.

“No better?” you ask.

“Cold as ice.”

You stroke the blanket overtop her knee. “Give it time; they’ll warm up nicely.”

“The embers have all gone out in the pan.” She makes the copper echo by kicking it.

She shivers again and your insides panic.

_(There’s nothing wrong with this, it’s what she needs.)_

( _Are you taking advantage?_ )

( _Is it right even if you like her?_ )

( _Is it right even if you_ didn’t? _)_

“Here,” you whisper, and you gently start pulling back the covers, expecting her to stop you.

She does not.

You pull her down to lay against you and she does, head on your shoulder, arm across your stomach. If you weren’t so nervous, you’d argue this was the best you’d ever felt. But it takes you long into the night until you are calm enough to even consider sleep, well past when she had passed out.

The last thought you have before you fall asleep is maybe she was warm enough for you to leave.

…

You wake in almost the same position as you had fallen asleep. She is nestled closer against you, face buried against your neck, hand higher on your ribcage, tucked just under your breast. You blush immediately, but you do not want to move her in the case it would wake her.

So you pretend to be asleep until she wakes up.

Her eyelashes tickle your neck as she blinks her sleep away, hand grabbing a fistful of your shift as she stretches.

Her sharp inhale of surprise follows, and she freezes exactly where she is, head on your shoulder and hand holding your dress tightly. It’s at least ten seconds before you think she even starts breathing again.

You expected her to jolt away immediately.

Finally, she moves, and she kisses your cheek quickly before turning over and falling back to sleep.

You skin hums where her touch lingers, and you have to hold your breath in hopes it will slow your thundering heart.


	2. Mortality's Waltz (part 1.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your usual parties had never been quite this eventful.

_1698 - age 18_

The house is quiet tonight. The semi-annual ball is tomorrow. You’re sure all the staff was told to sleep in preparation for the chaos that would surely ensue the following morning. The main foyer is decorated in all the best crystal. The floors look newly polished, even by the glow of the moon.

You’ve always hated these events. Too much in the way of public relations, not enough alcohol to compensate. Too many fancy boys with their airs on ready to court you.

You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at the memory of last year’s debacle. Sure, they were good for a dance and a drink and a laugh, and in those moments, you felt alright. You felt like you belonged. You _enjoyed_ yourself. But they always took that as _yes_ , they always took it as interest, and it made you tired.

This year, you just wanted to enjoy yourself. Namely, see her.

She was usually away when the balls were held. Not this time.

You had been ready for bed but an excitement you weren’t used to had persuaded you to visit her, if only for a moment. Padding through the empty halls in your nightclothes, you approach her door and knock once.

You open it to find her stumbling about her room in her dance tutor’s arms.

“Goodness, what would your father say?” you quip, “A man in your quarters after hours?”

She throws a glare over his shoulder, turning it to a smile when she sees he is looking.

“I was just…getting some last minute practicing in,” she reasons, dropping his arm and stepping out of his hold.

You blow out your candle, raising your eyebrows skeptically.

“I’m making light,” you resign. “You don’t have to be up in arms about it, dear.”

She sighs, and glances over at you again. She double takes, and you see her eyes widen in shock.

“Mircalla!” she exclaims, rushing to the entryway and pulling the door a little more closed. “You’re not decent for… _him._ ” You hear the pause, her stumble as she questions whether that clarification was necessary.

You snort, gently brushing past her and into the room. “He’s seen worse.”

You knock shoulders with him as you pass; his displeasure is evident.

“I beg your pardon?” she asks as she follows you back into the room.

“The Countess finds it amusing to be caught in various states of undress,” he clarifies flatly.

You laugh and flop down onto her bed. “Your wit has paled,” you think of her aloud.

He tuts. “Always the troublemaker, Lady Karnstein.”

“I am quite aware,” she mutters.

“Alright, alright,” you dismiss, not even bothering to take your eyes off the ceiling. “No siding together now, that’s hardly fair.”

She scoffs.

You lift your head in time to see him nod. “If…you are in need of nothing more, Miss,” he indicates toward the door.

“Oh, yes,” she shakes her head at herself. “Of course, you are excused.”

“A good night to you both,” he bows as he retreats.

The moment he stepped from the room, her shoulders slumped and she leaned against the wall as best she could with the hoop of her skirt in the way.

You exhale a laugh, propping yourself back to a sitting position. “What? Don’t tell me you’re happy to see him go,” you tease.

She gives an unamused face, eyebrows quirking up momentarily before she sighs in resignation. “It’s not him,” she protests weakly. “I mean not exactly…”

You think to tease her again, but she’s hunching her shoulders in a way that always makes your chest stir. Just seeing her head bowed in timid uncertainty hurts your heart. You slip to your feet and take a few steps closer. “Okay, then what?”

She won’t look you in the eye, turning her head away as you approach. She shrugs absently. “I don’t know. He just always looks…disappointed when I can’t keep up,” she rushes out, picking at the skin by her nails in her nervous fidget.

You raise your eyebrows. “You think you can’t keep up?”

She laughs. Shakes her head like you’re blind or daft or somewhere in between. “Weren’t you watching? I’m _dreadful_ at following.”

“Ehh,” you answer, unconvinced by her self-judgment, and you shrug your shoulder casually. She tries to hide how her eyes light with relief. “It’s difficult to be bad at following.”

She looks over at you cautiously. “I believe there’s a first time for everything.”

An idea sparks in you.

You want to help, and you know how, but even thinking it makes your heart pick up and your cheeks flush.  “What if I prove to you that you’re wrong?”

She blinks, head quirking to the side and God, do you want to smile at her cute little confused face.

“You believe yourself a better teacher than he?”

“You will have to be the judge of that.”

She looks unconvinced.

If you’re going to do this, you have to go all out. Casual, easy. Like it’s completely reasonable and that you’re completely _not_ super nervous.

“Come, now,” you poke her playfully with your toe; she swats it away, but you don’t miss the smile she tries to conceal. “You must have some faith in me,” you coax.

Biting her lip, she looks down, fiddling at the edge of her stay. You feel slightly dizzy.

“Yes, alright,” she sighs, “I suppose it cannot hurt.”

“Perfect.” You scoot off the bed and tug at her skirt. “That has to go.”

“Wh-” she looks at it and back at you. “What on Earth for?”

“Because,” you reason, “it’ll make all the steps easier. One, you can see your feet, and two you won’t have to worry about that _thing_ ,” you pull at the cage resentfully, “getting in your way.”

She frowns.

“It’s how my father taught me,” you explain.

“Oh.” She looks embarrassed. “If you think it will help. Just let me…” she trails off as she walks toward her changing screen.

You watch her incredulously. She is ridiculous sometimes. You would still see her in her shift skirt when she walked back out. Why would it matter if you saw her take the other layers off?

You don’t argue though. You just wait, an amused look plastered on your face as you watch her shadow stumble about to rid herself of the garments.

It clatters to the floor and she mutters to herself. You lick your lips to keep from laughing.

Slowly she emerges, and your heart jumps a nervous beat. She’s in the same attire as you, save for the stay she’s still adorning atop her shift.

“Ready?” you ask. ( _How’d you find your voice; it ran away for a second._ )

“Teach me the ways.”

You roll your eyes. “You mustn’t be dramatic about it.”

She stops in front of you and smiles at you, actually smiles, and it feel like she hasn’t done that in years. “You’re the one who said my wit was pale. I’m redeeming myself,” she says over-enthusiastically.

“Let’s start with the basic steps, okay?” You take a step back from her and immediately she shakes her head.

“I know those dances, Cal. I have space to move with those. I cannot perfect this cursed waltz.”

“I wouldn’t call it cursed,” you murmur, slowly stepping back to her.

“Really?” she asks skeptically, taking the hand you offer her.

“No, not at all.” Carefully, you put her other hand on your shoulder. She squeezes as if to test the hold. You can’t help but smile back at her. “I find it rather-” Romantic. ( _it almost falls right of your tongue_ ) “refreshing.”

She looks at you, confused, and it’s the only thing that keeps you from blushing as you gently place your hand on her waist.

“How so?” she prompts, and you suppose you should have seen that coming.

“Well. To me, I uhh…” she steps slightly closer and you hesitate. Your throat closes up and you clear it quickly before continuing. “Instead of dancing _by_ someone, this feels like you’re truly dancing…with them.”

Her brow furrows as she contemplates, and eventually she nods her approval. “I suppose that makes sense.”

You nod too.

She’s looking at you funny and you realize you haven’t made any steps. You’re just standing there, holding her uselessly.

“Oh.” You laugh. “Forgive me, I lost myself for a moment.”

She smiles. “It’s quite alright. But…Cal? This doesn’t feel right.”

It’s not. There’s at least a foot of extra space between you. You can feel a blush creeping up your neck.

You’re not sure if you can do this anymore.

“Here,” you say softly, guiding her closer with the hand on her hip, pulling until her chest was against yours, your stomachs dangerously close as well.

She breathes in sharply and laces her fingers through yours to keep some balance.

( _Wait, did she gasp?_ )

“You okay?” you ask.

“O-of course,” she stutters. She won’t look at you.

“Hey,” you coax, bending at the knees to align yourself with her downward glance. Once you’ve caught her gaze, you straighten up again and she follows you with her eyes. “You sure?”

She looks back and forth between your eyes, and for a moment you think you read hesitation, but she smiles, squeezes your hand, and nods. Your heart is in knots.

“Okay.”

Collecting your nerves, currently in a pool at your feet, you gently extract your fingers from between hers. “First thing’s first, never do that.” She laughs lightly, glad the weight of whatever moment had passed between you is now gone. “Always just hold the thumb. Easier for me to spin you. Easier for you to keep from holding sweaty hands.”

Again, she laughs. “You’re quite the colorful teacher.”

“I speak truth.”

She hums to placate you.

It makes you feel bold. Smirking at her, you lean in closer, keeping your voice just above a whisper. “For that, I don’t think I’m going to tell you the steps.”

“Isn’t that the point?” she huffs.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tsk. “Trust in me,” you remind her. “I know you _know_ the steps.”

She reluctantly nods her approval.

Slowly, you start the basic steps, pushing with the hand holding hers when she needs to step back and pulling with your arm at her waist when she must step forward. She follows well. Sure, she hesitates, but the longer you spin around the room in the same basic pattern, the better she relaxes into it.

She laughs incredulously, smiling brightly at you and you feel at home. You belong here.

You lift your hand up and she steps into the spin easily, laughing more fully as she twirls. You pull her back to you and she falls naturally against you, hips against hips and chest against chest and suddenly she’s too close. ( _Not close enough?_ )

You can feel her heartbeat in her fingers where she clutches your thumb and you can smell her soap and it feels so _magnetic_. Her smile has faded but she seems frozen by something too, mouth open slightly as she breathes a little heavier than usual.

Her foot steps between yours, and you’re suffocating. Your chest feels so tight; she feels like your remedy, like if you could lean a little closer, just a little, then maybe you could breathe again.

Abruptly, she jolts, freed from whatever hold you both were caught in, and you swear you could feel her rushed exhale on your lips you were so close. You let her go instantly, cheeks hot. She laughs nervously and shakes her head, brushing invisible wrinkles from her shift.

“That, uhh, that was very helpful, Mircalla, but it is…very late. I should really be rested for tomorrow.”

“Of course, of course,” you bow halfway ( _why would you do that?!_ ) and scramble backward for the door. “Sleep well, dear.”

You slam the door behind you, and it echoes through the empty halls.

_Why in God’s name had you thought that would be a good idea?_

You berate yourself the entire way back to your room, thinking of all the possible apologies you could give her tomorrow.

None come close to being right.

…

The following morning you sit on the floor, feet hanging over the balcony of the main foyer as you watch the staff bustle around trying to arrange all the last minute details until you are whisked off to get properly dressed.

You almost forget the previous night, lost in the busyness of it all, you don’t quite have _time_ to think of it. That is, of course, until you are stuck standing in front of a mirror, waiting for the maid to tighten up the laces for you. You’re just standing there inspecting yourself when the thought strikes you of if she will like the dress on you. Innocent enough in passing, but when the real meaning of it hits home, you grimace.

The maid apologizes and asks if it is too tight.

All you can do is politely assure her despite the _very real_ pain stitching up your sides from last night’s encounter.

You think it might be better just to not bring it up at all. Apology would call attention to it.

(Was that maybe what you wanted?)

You are whisked off toward the grand foyer, staff along the walls, food and wine at the ready. Father gives you a brief hug.

And then the guards open the doors.

You stay at your father’s side through the greetings, being the perfect host everyone expected of you. Smile, wave, welcome.  Every so often you sneak a glance over your shoulder, trying to pick her out of the crowd. You only see her once, and she has her back turned to you, thoroughly invested in _something_ you cannot make out . It feels almost purposeful.

You shake it off. You’re just being paranoid.

Once the final guest has arrived and the mingling is underway, Father makes a quick introductory speech, a true official welcome, and then the real merriment commences. The music is bright and the chatter is loud.

The constant flow of alcohol is the only thing you really find yourself enjoying, though, evident through the simple fact that you no longer have to find a waiter for some; they find you.

The ballroom is beginning to fill as people migrate, and those bold enough to ask someone immediately are already dancing the usual pattern. The usual dance of lonesome twirling and brushing hands. Always elegant to watch, boring to dance. Just glorified curtseys and skips in your opinion.

Among all the whirling, you catch sight of her, laughing and spinning with the line of ladies across from the gentleman. You have to swallow the lump in your throat. Her smile really could light a room.

You stay to the edge of the dance floor, always keeping something in your hand, be it a drink or food, to discourage any invitations. It works for the most part. You still have to turn away a few who refuse to take the hint, either out of arrogance or stupidity.

She’s doing so well. She’s always been the more social one. You just can’t keep your eyes off her as she continues to dance, song after song, invitation after invitation.

Your eyes wander away from her, scanning the room to see if anyone else is watching. There are a few younger gentleman in a group that are whispering in hushed tones, trying to subtly watch her with her current partner.

Continuing your sweeping gaze, you start when eyes lock with another set of eyes looking intently back at you.

Immediately you look away, taking a drink to try and play it off, but curiosity gets the better of you.

Quickly, you glance back at her. She is tall and commanding, donned in all black. She stands out; you’re surprised you hadn’t seen her before.

And she hadn’t looked away yet. In fact, she appears to be looking even harder at you, eyes flitting down to inspect you before looking in your eyes once again. There is something in her eyes. Approval? (of what?) She very subtly raises her glass in acknowledgement at you, nodding her head once before looking toward the company at her side.

You could have sworn you saw a smirk in her eyes.

The music changes to something with an unfamiliar tempo, and you glance back to where your attention had previously been drawn. Your friend falters, and you can see her expression change from something easy to something forced.

 _Good Lord_. She’s going to get too caught up in her head to properly dance.

You watch as the boy she fancies offers her his hand. For a moment she just stares at it, conflicted.

“Lady Karnstein?” you hear somewhere beside you, but you refuse to look away.

Hesitantly, she takes his hand and awkwardly steps closer to him. Her arms are stiff and her hands look like she’s squeezing the life out of his shoulder and hand.

“Would you do me the honor, Lady Karnstein?”

“Sure,” you agree absently, extending your hand in the general direction you believe him to be.

He takes it and leads you forward, along with another group of people, and you lose sight of her.

You curse under your breath and crane your neck to find her again, but she must have spun off in a different direction.

Reluctantly, you stop scanning the crowd to find your partner. You have to admit he isn’t half bad looking, but that doesn’t really mean much. You take his hand and hold his shoulder, stepping close enough to make him blink. ( _You live for uncomfortable men._ )

He starts the steps and you follow, but his leading is mediocre at best.

You keep a constant watch over his shoulder, poised to take the lead the moment you find her again.

He’s trying to make some kind of conversation, but you don’t even know what he’s saying.

“Pardon,” you say flatly, “I can’t hear you over the strings.”

It stops his mouth at the very least.

You catch sight of her at the East side of the floor and your heart skips. She looks terrified. You need to give her some kind of vocal support.

The man attached to your hip tries to spin you. You anchor your feet, using the force to push him back slightly and clear your view to her once again.  A glance up to him shows protest on his lips but he stops mid breath as a colleague of his sways closer. He clears his throat, and you laugh a silent victory. Saying something to _you_ means announcing his less than dominant position to the rest of his manly and impressive peers.

You check over his shoulder again, just in time to see her stumble. You wince with an intake of breath through your teeth, craning your neck to get a better view. She’s flustered now, all red cheeks and downward looks; most importantly she’s prattling away, maybe apologies or excuses or a confused mix of both.

You put gentle pressure on his shoulder with your left hand before you step, and surprisingly he follows. You suppose if he didn’t you’d _both_ look bad. Still, you need to get closer to her. Every time you look back over, she missteps again, another toe step or body clash. She’s always a little more red, a little more clumsy, and a little more _terrified_.

With one more (half) graceful weave through a few dancing couples, you manage to get yourself close enough to her.

“You need to calm down,” you whisper, tipping your head far enough to the side to be on her level.

“I can’t do this,” she hisses.

“Yes, you can, Just like we practiced.”

Her features tense, and you think maybe you struck the wrong nerve. You had meant to bring back the fun, the _lightness_ of the way you and she had danced, not the brush of noses or the catch of breath.

You suppose the memories are tangled, though.

She reins herself in, and you see resolve sweep across her face. She nods curtly, meeting your gaze for a fleeting second with a delayed smile before focusing back on her partner.

Falling back with your own partner, you give her the space she needs. You don’t even look for her until the song comes to an end. When the music fades, everyone steps away from each other to clap.

You smile politely at your partner and bow your head, slipping away to head straight for the champagne flutes.

You scan the room for a moment as you take a long sip. She sticks out, though. Her shoulders are hunched, and she’s pulling at her fingers like she always does. She looks shaken.

You watch over the rim of your glass as she stands alone on the edge of the ballroom. No one approaches her, and a few times she tries to join others, but her newfound insecurity gets the better of her. She bites her lip and looks around the room only to catch your eye. She pauses, holding your gaze. You take a sip and smile at her. She does not return it.

Begrudgingly she makes her way over to you, arms crossed.

She ducks her head, pouting a sort of defeat. “They must think me foolish. I-I was horrid out there.”

You laugh, letting your head fall to rest against hers as you wrap your arm around her slim waist, only for a moment before you lift your head back up. “I wish I could contest, dear.”

She huffs, pulling away to look you square in the face. “Mircalla, you’re cruel.”

You throw your hand up in exasperation, waving it in the direction of some men. “I agree with the foolish clause, for heaven’s sake. Not the horrid part.” You run your finger down her cheek, and for a moment she’s frozen looking in your eyes, your smile growing as you return her gaze. “It is not your fault men need a scapegoat to their vast shortcomings. They will, as both you and I know, simply blame the very talented, beautiful lady instead.”

She blinks, and she turns away a little too harshly, unbound from something you didn’t know was holding her, maybe even a splash of color hidden beneath the layer of make-up. “As all other men seem to do because they lack the simple courtesy of humility.”

You see the muscles of her jaw tensing, teeth grinding to some unknown frustration, and before you can realize it’s you causing it, she’s rushing away, arms as close to her sides as the metal cage of her skirt will allow, head bowed in determination as she slips out into the hallway. At first all you can do is watch in confusion but then all your realizations snap into place and you’re hiking up your skirt to run after her. The attendant at the door bows as you pass; you nearly knock him over in your haste.

All you know is that you need to catch her. You can’t let her slip away, certainly not now. Certainly not yet, when she doesn’t even know the half of what you’ve thought of her.

But when you run into the grand foyer, there are too many directions she could’ve gone. Up the left staircase or the right. Out the front doors or even through the closed off second ballroom.

You inhale a pained breath, and it hiccups in your throat as your hand falls to rest on your forehead.

( _You need her._ )

You can’t lose her yet, and part of you thinks you know where to find her.

The rest of you prays she’ll be there.

You head toward the gardens, the place that always seems to draw you and her together.

The terrace doors are hanging open and you feel less relieved and more nervous.

Stepping outside, you see her off in the distance pacing on the grass, back and forth in front of the fountain. As you approach, you make out her frustrated noises as she talks to herself.

Her cheeks are flushed, and for all you know, it could be from the wind, but to you it screams seething anger. Her fists clench and unclench as she paces, back and forth, shaking her head in the smallest of gestures.

You take a step into the grass, fidgeting with your fingers.

“You don’t just get to choose what to obey!”

She shouts it with so much force her voice buckles. “You can’t just say things like that!”

“Things like what?”

She baulks. Her eyes flare as you take another step closer.

She huffs her exasperation. “You’re not above laws.”

The corners of your lips twitch up and she gets angrier than before. “Social or not, they are still binding, Cal. Being flush gives you no pardon.”

Your mouth drops open a little, and maybe you even redden for she suddenly blushes too.

She stutters, something incoherent, before forcing out words you can understand. “Being privileged,” she amends softly though she had not misspoken.

Silence falls between you, thick enough you start to feel short of breath.

“You can’t just be like that,” she tries again, this time sounding tired instead of angry.

( _tired and worn and beaten_ )

“Like what?”

She looks away from you when she says it, chewing on her lip and looking up at the looming clouds. “So anti-men.”

Slowly she looks back at you, and for the first time, you think you see a version of fear.

You roll your eyes, scoff. “Like they’ve ever done you any service!”

She throws her hands up tiredly. “But they will. Don’t you see, Mircalla?”

Her eyes are scrutinizing you, searching your face, and you realize this is a test.

One you are going to fail.

You take a step closer, and her lip quivers, a broken sob escaping with her sudden exhale.

“Mircalla…”

Her voice cracks, and when you take another step towards her, she shakes her head and steps back, folding her lips inward between her teeth to form a stubborn line that is so characteristically _her._ It almost makes you pull back, step away, but you realize her stubbornness isn’t directed at you. No, she’s fighting the tears welling in her eyes, pooling up dangerously, trembling with her trembling jaw so precariously on the edge, just waiting for that extra push to spill over.

“I don’t see,” you begin, your voice nearly cracking, and that’s when you realize that you’re almost crying too (no, not almost, you’re definitely _definitely_ crying). “What service could any man give me that you couldn’t?”

It is a loaded question. Heavy, as if you physically brought it to life, gave it mass and form and _existence_ even though both of you had already known it was there.

She falters. Swallows.

“Men pursue women, Mircalla! It’s just what people _do_!” she shouts, her voice strained as she throws her arms down in frustration.

Angers sparks in your chest, hot and sudden, swirling up your throat. “Did you ever stop to think maybe they do it because that’s what they _want,_ not what they feel _obligated_ to do?”

“ _No_!” Her response is immediate and biting. It startles you both.

The meaning hangs thick around you. The realization that she could even possibly feel for you what you do for her stifles what little air you had left.

She blinks and her tears fall.

It’s too much.

You reach out, take a step closer, and her hands instinctively fly up to block you, one flat against your sternum, the other catching your arm. You accept the rejection, ready to pull back only to find her grip tighten around your wrist. She’s staring hard at the ground, fingers trembling as she holds you.

The storm looms in the distance, wind gusting in angry sweeps around you.

You try again to step away but she pulls you back harder this time, skirts bumping together as you stagger forward. You have to place your free hand on her hip for support and her elbow buckles where she had previously been blocking you.

The rest of her crumples against you as she lets out a choked sob.

Part of you is angry.

To think that she believes she’s _above_ this, whatever _this_ is. Above her feelings, above _yours_.

That she would put everyone else before you, choose their approval rather than your happiness.

That she believes she can just turn her head and it won’t exist anymore. Who knows, maybe she _could_ , but where would that leave you? Alone, bearing the weight of hers _and_ your feelings for the rest of your sorry life.

( _you’ve always been selfish)_

The other part of you cannot be angry.

“Look at me,” you say quietly, trying to hide the waver in your voice.

She sniffles, composing herself enough to stand upright once more. Your neck is wet where her tears remain.

Collecting yourself, you let go of her waist. You carefully lift your hand, guiding it slowly up, ready to pull it back at any sign of refusal. She allows you, and you cup the side of her neck tentatively, brushing your thumb along her jaw and under her ear.

Your chest tightens at the feeling. It feels much more…personal than you had imagined, holding her like that. Something exclusive, maybe? You swallow as the proper word strikes you.

 _Intimate_.

You run your thumb over her jaw again and just for a moment she leans into it. You exhale shakily.

“Darling…” you try, but your voice fails you.

She looks at you with red eyes, _pleading_ eyes.

 _Don’t ask this of me_ , is what you see.

_Let it lie._

_Pretend._

“Is that what you want?”

You’re offering her what she asked for, and even then, she falters. You can see the break of hesitation in her eyes as she looks at you. The same confusion you’ve felt mixing up your insides stares back at you from in her.

“I love you.” The way she says it pulls your heart toward your feet ( _like the devil claiming his reward_ ).

She must see it in your face, for she reiterates. “I _do_ , Mircalla,” she protests thickly, squeezing your arm ( _you forgot she was still holding it_ ), “but it isn’t proper.”

“It just…it feels right,” you whisper.

Her lips twitch down; she almost breaks. “I know.”

You exhale heavily, and instinctively you relax forward into her, eyes closing as your forehead falls to rest against hers. She sighs too, and you feel her hand stroke up your arm to cup the hand still on her neck. She squeezes it tightly.

Your breathing is uneven and shaky, and the more you listen and feel her, the longer you linger there, the more you realize she’s breathing with you. Just as erratic and broken and _charged._

Feeling her so close makes your heart clench. It feels like you’re suffocating with every warm puff of air you feel against your lips. Suddenly your ribcage cannot expand enough, suddenly your throat feels closed and you can feel your heartbeat all the way up in your fingertips still cupping her neck.

Your lose your balance again, lean into her further until your noses brush and you hear her breath catch.

You stop yourself. You wait and you listen because _God_ that was close and the last thing you want is to do is something she does not.

( _Should you pull back?)_

Swallowing, your heart kicks hard against your ribs as you feel her move.

( _Where is she going?)_

Her lips brush against yours, just for a second, before she hesitates and retreats.

You forget how to breathe, how to move, how to _think_ in that second of complete void.

She could be halfway across the map by now and you wouldn’t have known the difference, but just as you think to open your eyes, she rocks up on her toes and kisses you firmly.

Your stomach flutters.

She’s so soft, and you can’t help but pull her a little closer, brushing your thumb against her cheek and tipping her chin up to kiss her again. She grips at your side, pulls you against her, and it feels like desperation. But _desperate_ isn’t right, because her kisses slow. She drags them out until your heart is pounding in your throat again, until your stomach is twisting in ways you’ve never experienced.

You feel her tears against your cheeks, and the more you focus, the more you feel her shaking. You can’t get enough of her, though. You kiss her again; she tastes like hopelessness.

You have to stop because she chokes out a sob, turning her head away out of courtesy.

“Hey,” you murmur, “hey, it’s okay.”

She shakes her head, refusing to look at you as her body trembles.

“I…I can’t,” she whimpers, brushing past you and running toward the house.

You let her go.

Half because you understand and half because you’re too broken to move. Your breathing is shallow, and you feel your eyes stinging with tears you so badly want to fight. Putting your hands on your hips, you look up at the sky, biting your trembling lip to make it stop.

Holding your breath, you count to ten and pray the pain searing in your chest will pass.

But all you can think about is losing her.

When you let that breath go, it bursts out as a sob. You wipe furiously at your eyes with your wrists but it’s useless. The tears flow freely as you look around the empty courtyard.

What did you expect? Happily ever after?

You laugh bitterly at yourself between sobs, shaking your head.

 _She was right_.

You should have listened. You should have let it lie.

You’d rather live some pathetic farce with a man your father approves of than live a life without her at all.

You can fix it. You have to.

Thunder cracks overhead as you run back to the estate. She wouldn’t have gone far. She certainly wouldn’t have gone back to the ball. Not yet.

Walking hastily down the empty corridors, you weave your way toward her room. You try to outline some form of apology in your head, but nothing sounds quite right. Not sincere enough, not eloquent enough.

You turn the last corner and stop dead in your tracks.

There she is, kissing some man you’ve never seen before in your life, back against the corridor wall.

Your heart sinks.

You watch her hand wander, clumsily and searching until she gets her palm flat against his chest and pushes.

He stumbles back, and she slaps him hard.

It takes him off-guard, but only for a moment. He shoves back, and she whimpers in pain as she thumps into the wall, squirming and kicking as he advances once more, hand to her throat.

You’re rooted there. Stunned.

She turns her head to try and relieve the pressure against her throat, and in all the chaos she still manages to find your gaze.

Everything slows. She forgets to fight as she looks at you, fear bright in her eyes, desperation in them as she blinks away a few tears.

Your mouth hangs open. Should you call out? Find help?

You try to read her face for an answer but all you get is _I’m scared_ and _I’m sorry_.

Your mind says leave but your heart says you can’t.

“ _Hey_!”

( _apparently your heart is better linked to your mouth_ )

He drops her in shock, and you expect her to run, but she stays glued in place. “Mircalla, _no_ ,” she cries, throwing her hand up, and you vaguely feel movement behind you. It’s much too late as something hits the back of your head.

It knocks your vision clean out, and your knees give way to solid ground. You might have even lost consciousness for a second, but you groggily fade back to reality to find yourself being dragged into the closest guest room.

“ _This wasn’t the plan_.”

“ _I retrieved your countess, did I not?”_

 _“_ She _was not included._ ”

You hear her muffled protests, useless noises as she tries to squirm free of something.

_“I was merely making it a fair deal. You get something and so do I.”_

Your eyelids feel like lead but you force them open. The same attacker as before was holding her arms behind her back, his other hand over her mouth as he talked calmly to the new arrival. Someone you _knew_.

A baron of somewhere. ( _Vorden-something? Vordenberg?_ ) He often came by the chateau for business, though you vaguely remember his presence during your father’s off seasonal months as well. You never knew why.

You try to sit up, but immediately the world spins, and you have to lay back down as your stomach churns threateningly.

The baron sighs. “ _If you must. But I still require your aid in Lady Karnstein’s removal from the premises.”_

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You force yourself to stand, and although the world reels, you throw yourself at the man holding her. You lower your shoulder and ram against him, and the force knocks her loose. She stumbles back, and he nearly falls over.

Problem is, you see something new. As he regains his balance, you catch the glint of a blade in his hand that had _definitely_ not been there before. His glare is angry and you are _scared_ but she is behind you and you are between them and that is all that matters.

“What are you doing?” the baron asks in horror.

You aren’t entirely sure who he’s speaking to.

“Come now, Mircalla,” this younger man coaxes with a smile so insincere your blood runs cold. “Just follow the baron’s orders.”

“Only if you keep your hands off her,” you threaten, voice surprisingly even as your body shakes with nervous energy.

“No promises,” he teases.

Anger sparks hot against the inside of your ribs, and you run at him.

“ _No, stop_ -” two voices call behind you.

He sidesteps you, swiping the knife towards your throat as you dodge the blow.. And if it weren’t so goddamn terrifying, you’d find it ironic, how like a dance this was. Push and pull, opposite movements forever mirroring until one of you falter.

All you’re doing is dodging, though. Defensive. You can’t win like that.

With all your weight, you shove him back. He stumbles, shoulder connecting with the fireplace mantle. He chokes to catch his breath through the unexpected pain, and you use the moment  to swing a punch at him.

Your knuckles crunch against his face, and the pain that spikes up your arm is worth it.

“I _command_ you to stop!” the baron’s voice barely registers in your mind as you kick this man with all your might. His knees buckle, and he looks as though he may collapse. Instead, he falls against you, grabbing you for support.

At first you think that’s all he did, but an instant later, your stomach is throbbing in pain you’d never dreamed. Your hands immediately reach to stem the pain with pressure, but they are met with a wooden hilt and enough blood to coat your palms.

You cough, and the force knocks your balance off. You collapse to your knees, and with a significant amount of effort, he pulls his knife back. It splits pain all the way up your spine. You think about fighting it, but he buries the knife between your ribs and you find it harder to breathe. You cannot find the strength to keep yourself upright anymore.

The ground finds you ( _you find the ground?_ ) and somewhere above you she is screaming and the baron is yelling. “ _What have you done?_ ”

No matter how much pressure you put to your stomach, it continues to throb in mind-numbing pain, each stinging jolt in time with your slowing heartbeat.

“We gave it our best,” the man says apathetically. “But it’s time we make our exit.”

You open your eyes just in time to see him thrust the knife into her stomach. You want to cry out but when you try, you choke on enough liquid to think that maybe you are drowning.

They leave in a hurry, not even bothering to close the door behind them.

You’re too weak to move. She’s across the room, crumpled on the floor. You can’t tell if she’s alive or not.

You try to call her name again, but the blood bubbling up in your throat makes it impossible to speak You feel lightheaded, and your vision spins.

Closing your eyes, you try to stop the world from moving underneath you, but it just spins and spins and spins. Your mouth tastes of metal and your ears are ringing. Your fingers are sticky from where you hold your stomach.

She whimpers something like your name in delayed response and it’s enough to spur some kind of action from you.

Weakly you open your eyes, lifting your head enough to look at the wounds.

You immediately feel sick.

Too much blood. Way too much…outside that should be inside. Your abdomen burns. Your head throbs. Even so, you force yourself on hands and knees even as life itself is spilling from between your fingers in wet pulses as you clamber to your feet and stumble in her direction.

If she were even a few feet further you would not have made it; your knees collapse beside her and you fall somewhere at her back. She’s curled so tight into herself, forehead to knees, hands in fists.

“I’m scared,” she mumbles into her lap. “And I-I’m sorry.”

You spit away the blood obstructing your speech (your breath) enough to shush her, grab blindly for something to hold onto. She loosens her hand and God it’s more than enough to sink into, tether yourself for long enough to say.

 _You’re forgiven_ , is what should have come out of your mouth. But all you can think is _death_ and all you can hear is her ringing words from when your mother passed. 

“I’ll find you again.”

Her body racks with the force of what you think may have been a strained laugh. When her chest deflates with her exhale, this silence is loud and unforgiving in your ears. She squeezes your hand, fear for her life trembling in it until she relaxes into you.

You want to follow. To let go of the pain, to let go of _yourself._ Your eyes close again, and you breathe in as deep as you can without coughing, and for a while you drift away. Sleep is deceiving that way. You think you’re gone and over only to have a rustling drag you right back into the stinging pain of your gut and the cold seeping deep into your fingers and toes.

Prying your eyes open, you catch the twisting of dark fabric. She strides into the room, billowing black skirt and head high like this is her home. Her _kingdom_.

You could be hallucinating. ( _wait, no, she looks…familiar?)_

That beautiful woman walks to your side. She takes your blood soaked hand in hers and she smiles.

 _Smiles_.

Your bones feel cold.

Is she your angel? Demon? Guide to the afterlife?

You’re too tired to choose.

Everything feels heavy. Your limbs, your chest, your eyelids. Each breath feels like a step upstream. This woman doesn’t seem to notice. She drops your hand and appears to fiddle with her wrist .

You don’t know, though, for you let your eyes close again.

“Drink,” is all she says.

 _Save her_.

Your words do not make it out of you.

“Drink,” she repeats and so you do, but you cannot taste anything beyond the same metallic thickness pooling in your mouth from all your coughing. It’s much colder as this time it runs _down_ your throat instead of up.

“Now sleep, child,” she murmurs.

She strokes your hair and you think maybe this isn’t a bad way to go out. You’d almost say you feel safe.

You inhale one more time. Your lungs feel like lead against your unyielding ribcage.

Just when you are about to exhale, you feel a sting at your neck. You wince.

It does not compare to the burning that follows.

You fight to hang on, but everything is rushing away from you. Your body, the room. The last thing you can think before everything goes black is that you can hear it raining.

…

You wake up screaming.

You can’t stop yourself as you scramble backward desperately until your back hits a wall.

The room is unfamiliar. It’s so _loud_. You hear pounding and chatter, you smell blood again. Frantic, you look down, hands automatically brushing away the blood you expect. But you aren’t bleeding. You aren’t even wounded but there _is_ blood on your hands.

Horrified, you look up, and the gore in front of you is almost obscene. Two bodies are curled up together a few meters away, a trail of smeared blood leading out into the hall. Huddled in the corner opposite you is a man, trembling and blubbering incoherently.

( _not incoherent, he’s_ begging _)_

“ _Mircalla_ , please. I was your _protector_.”

You recognize the voice, and slowly, you walk toward him.

“Look at me.” Your voice is cold. _You_ are cold.

Hesitantly, he uncovers his face, and it is the Baron from your chateau.

“ _You_ ,” you spit. “ _How could you_?”

“You killed _everyone_ ,” he whispers as if he hadn’t heard you. “E-everyone. They’re…they’re just-”

You yank him to his feet with your hand around his throat, and it does not matter that he towers over you because he is _weak_. You can feel it beneath your fingertips as you squeeze.

“I-I have nothing left,” he stutters. “Please…”

You clench your jaw, poised to crush him in your grasp, but then he chokes out the words you least expect.

“Do it.”

You blink.

And the almost satisfied feeling you had been harboring in your chest immediately vanishes.

You drop him, and his sob is pathetic.

“I loved you,” he whispers. “I just wanted to love you.”

You have no idea what’s going on. Where you are, _what happened_ , how in the _hell_ you got here. And you most certainly do not know how to respond.

So you leave. And every room you pass, there is another body. Another friend or family member. With each one, you feel a little less angry and a little more even.

He is the reason she died.

He deserved everything he got.

You find your way outside, and with no specific direction in mind, you simply walk, moon overhead.

For a long time, you see no one. And then you see a woman, sprinting toward you.

“ _Oh my God, it’s you_.”

She catches your arms, slightly breathless. You do not recognize her.

“We got to your coffin and you were gone. But it looked…dug up. Did you…climb out yourself?”

_Coffin? What?_

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “But I…”

She really looks at you now, and you think she sees your confusion.

“Where were you?”

“Baron V-vordenberg’s chateau, I think,” you say weakly.

“ _Matska_ ,” you hear in the distance. “ _Is that her?_ ”

“ _Oui, Maman_ ,” the woman calls back.

“What’s going on?” you snap, extricating your arms from Matska’s grip.

She laughs like it’s funny. You don’t understand.

“What…day is it?”

“Sunday,” she says slowly.

“No. Yesterday it was Thursday.”

She grimaces and sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Not…exactly.”

“I beg your pardon?” Irritation spikes up your throat. “Stop speaking vaguely.”

“Your funeral was…last month I’m afraid.”

You don’t have time for games.

“You’re causing her unnecessary stress,” you hear the other woman chastise as she approaches behind Matska. You cannot get a good look at her. “The goal was to find her. And we did.”

“I-I don’t…” You’re too overwhelmed. You want to protest. To _demand_ answers, all this talk about coffins and funerals when you _know_ you are breathing.

The woman steps around Matska, but the hood of her cape conceals her from view. “You will know all in good time,” she assures quietly, and when she touches you, the world goes black.

…

You wake in yet _another_ unfamiliar room, and you are tired of this.

At least this time you are in a bed.

You sit up warily, inspecting your surroundings. You appear to be in a dungeon, for lack of a better term. No windows. No wall hangings, no color. The only light is the candle by the bed and another one in the corner by an occupied chair. Mastka, you think, rocking slowly in it, watching you.

“Are you alright?” she asks gently.

“Besides all the kidnapping, sure,” you retort bitterly.

She smirks, reclining back casually in her seat. “I’m Mattie.”

“Mircalla,” you say uneasily.

She frowns. “Oh.”

Licking your lips, you frown back. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “My mistake. You were mumbling when Mother brought you here. I thought it was your name, but…I suppose it was someone else’s.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Mother is just outside, if you wanted to speak with her.”

“I’m uncertain ‘want’ is the proper term.”

“How unfortunate.”

You follow the voice to its source at the doorway. Immediately you remember her, the woman in black, and you throw yourself at her ( _much faster than you expected_ ), catching her by surprise. You wrap your fingers around her throat, pulling her right up to your face. “Where is she?” you growl.

Her face is that of complete calm. “She was dead, darling. I couldn’t do anything.” Her smile reminiscent of sadness. You wouldn’t call it sympathy though.

“Put her down, Mircalla.”

You look back to Mattie, who is looking at you ( _maybe the woman?_ ) in slight confusion.

With an angry huff, you drop the woman to the ground. And after a moment, Mattie starts laughing.

“Is something humorous?” you snap.

“No longer feral and you’re still quite the storm,” she drawls.

Again, you’re confused. “Feral?”

The other woman sighs. “Mattie, leave us.”

Mattie pouts. “But Mother-”

“Now.”

She looks between you and her mother for a moment before sulking away, muttering something inaudible.

Once she’s gone, you walk back to the bed and drop onto it. The woman follows and sits beside you.

“What’s going on?” you ask, looking down at your lap. “Why am I alive?”

“Well,” she says, putting her hand on top of both of yours and squeezing. “Let’s start there, shall we? You are _not_ alive.”

Your immediate instinct is to argue, but even as you open your mouth, a tiny part of you already believes her. You…well you _feel_ dead.

She watches you in silence, letting you work out what little you have gleaned. “I-I don’t…”

“Come, darling,” she murmurs, reaching out and covering your hand with hers. “We have much to speak about. How about over dinner?”

The simple mention of it makes your stomach grumble. So you go with her.

She explains to you the concept of vampires before giving you a proposition. Help her with a so called Sacrifice. In reality, you have no choice. It is clear that the woman expects your cooperation in return for her rescuing you from death. In exchange, you get to live your new immortal life, free of any hindrance on her part.

You accept.


	3. Running Away (part 2.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first mistake was ruining the sacrifice. Your second mistake was running from it. The third? Yelling at Mother in the process. At least where you ended up wasn’t so bad.

_1709_

**“** Mattie that was... _amazing,_ ” you breathe as you close the distance between the two of you and link your arms.

She tips her chin up, smirk firmly in place. “I knew it would be. Only the finest for you, darling.”

You have to walk two steps for every one of hers, but you’re running on such a high you barely even notice.

“It whisked me away for a little while. I forgot myself.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Mircalla. It was only _Electra_.”

You nudge her with your hip. “It was _only_ _Electra_ ,” you mock her. “ _Only_ my _favorite_ play in _Paris_ , oh _nothing to mention, darling_.”

She laughs and elbows you between your ribs. “It would have been even better had you let me snack on that actor at the afterparty.”

“He was too talented to die, Mattie, c’mon. Life is so _meaningless_. Why take away someone who makes it a little better?”

She quirks her eyebrows up disapprovingly. “Because he probably _tasted_ even better than he sounded.”

You shake your head resolutely. “Impossible.”

She laughs again. “Sometimes I forget you’re a child.”

You snort, bowing your head. “Me too.”

You walk together silently, satisfied smiles playing over both your faces, until you reach the outskirts of the city where Mattie draws to a halt. She turns to you, gripping your upper arms firmly, and fixes her heavy gaze on you. “I promised Mother I would return you before dawn. Don’t make me a liar.”

“Never,” you exclaim, feigning shock.

She smirks and taps the end of your nose. You can’t help your grin.

“Be safe.” She kisses your forehead and the tenderness, the affection, burns you. In that moment, you could almost convince yourself that she really is your sister. “I’ll find you soon, Kitty.”

You scrunch your nose at the name, embarrassment flooding your cheeks as you remember trying Mother’s transformation technique only to turn into the smallest damned baby cat in the world. “Don’t call me that.”

She sighs, brushing hair from your face. “You mustn’t be so sensitive. Doesn’t bode well in our line of work.”

“I cannot help what I feel,” you retort, somewhat bitterly.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “The soul of an artist,” she mutters as she turns on her heels and runs off in the opposite direction, the power behind her movements whipping up a breeze around your ankles and blowing your hair back into your face.

You allow yourself a moment to gaze after her, to drink in the lights of Paris as something like yearning stirs in your chest. Whether it is for Mattie and your burgeoning friendship or for the heady rush of excitement as you drank in every moment of Electra, you do not know. You drag out the moment for as long as you dare before you sigh, turning your back on the city of lights as you begin the long trek back to Styria.

_..._

_1714_

Mother has spent the last five years training you for this moment. Terror sparks through every inch of your soul and it feels as if your stagnant heart bursts back to life at the thought of what you must do, beating wildly against your ribcage.

You are not sure you can do it.

You have done well until now. You targeted a girl, Beth, and gained her trust.

You stole her heart.

Mother told you the final sign was the dreams and, oh, did she dream. You’ve heard her screams for several nights now, the desperate sounds of fear and pain ringing in your ears even on the other side of town.

It was something about being around vampires during the Sacrifice, Mother said. Something about it made these girls submit to...whatever happened once they were taken from you.

For what, you weren’t sure.

She hugs you so tightly as you say goodnight. You pull away with a smile, and her eyes soften instantly. She is beautiful, you note absently, your chest warms at the thought.

“Meet me in the town square tomorrow night?” you ask, sliding your fingers down her jaw.

Her heart stutters in your ears.

“Of course.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” you say, smiling softly.

She bites her lip and looks away in hesitation. You think she may close her door, but suddenly her arms are around you and she’s kissing you. You catch her weight and return the kiss gently, laughing into her mouth in spite of yourself.

She pulls back, confused.

 _Damn_.

You rub the back of your neck. “I beg your pardon. I, uh, I was just…” You search for the right word, and though you should probably be lying, the truth slips out before you can stop it. “...happy.”

She blinks. “Oh.”

You think you may have ruined everything with the way she is looking at you, her furrowed brow in deep thought. You close your eyes and take a breath. How will you fix this? Just...grab her now? Try to seduce her further? You dread what Mother may do to you…

You open your eyes just in time to see her rock up onto her toes. She presses a fleeting kiss to your cheek. “Tomorrow,” she says definitively, closing the door quickly behind her.

You stand in front of the closed door for a moment, baffled by her actions tonight, before your shoulders drop in relief and you turn to leave.

…

You do as Mother says and sit on the outskirts of town. The night is cold and you spend the frozen minutes watching your breath puff out in front of you, trying to form shapes in the darkness.

Everything seems to be going according to plan. Will hasn’t called out yet and Beth’s heartbeat sounds fairly stable from where you can feel her in the center of town.

You’re getting bored - you don’t understand why Mother insisted that you be here. You’d rather be home, reading the latest tome to capture your attention. Swimming in the lake. Anything other than this.

A nearby rock catches your attention and you kick it. It flies out of your reach. _Perfect_.

Sighing, you walk in the general direction it went until you draw short at the shift you feel in the air. One heartbeat speeds up, then another.

Mother was right. The boy really was an idiot.

Still, you know you should stand your ground. You were told, no matter what, to not interfere. Do not go into town.

That much you can handle.

Your body, however, is _certain_ you are ready for a fight. Your nerves had spiked along with Will’s, as did your adrenaline. You find it impossible to keep still, pacing back and forth along the dusty road. You occasionally glance behind you, your focus less on the town than on the thundering heartbeat you have come to know so intimately over the past few weeks.

_Come on, Will._

Your tongue sweeps over your fangs. You’re still not used to them when you’re not feeding. But, at times like this when your body thinks there’s a fight to be had, they jut out. You can’t quite figure out how to retract them.

Maybe you could ask Mattie later. She wouldn’t make fun of you. Not right away at least.

Footsteps draw your attention, and you try not to grimace. Your girl is sprinting out of town as fast as her legs will carry her. Will is nowhere in sight. You can no longer hear him, yet your thoughts are too focused on Beth to spare your hapless brother much mind.

You can’t let her go. Mother will blame you.

Carefully, you walk in her direction.

 _(Just lure her like you always do_ )

She sees you and her face instantly fills with relief.

You smile back at her, opening your mouth to say something, and suddenly her feet slow. Her eyes are wide and her terror only seems to increase.

You remember your fangs.

( _oh hell_ )

“Beth, no-”

She doesn’t pause to hear you speak before she bolts in the opposite direction. You grimace and jog after her. She is easy to catch and you scoop her up before heading back toward town.

She squirms, and a whine catches in her throat, the precursor to a scream you should’ve seen coming. You’re too late to silence her and she shrieks into the oppressive silence of the night. You jolt in surprise and she takes advantage of your slip, breaking free and speeding back toward the distant lights of the sleeping town.

You sprint to catch up, and, while it isn’t difficult, she fights hard as you struggle for a grip. She flails her arms, all balled fists and scraping nails, and she screams desperately. Her voice cracks around a sob as you catch her by the waist and hike her up off the ground. She shrieks, raining blows against your back, kicking and squirming and, for the first time ever, you are not equipped for this.

“Stop it,” you mutter but she can’t hear you over her own shouting.

She twists and your arm twinges in protest, enough that you drop her once again to the ground. You spin to grab her again as she scrambles to her feet. Her jacket is ripped, her hair is filled with leaves and one of her shoes is missing.

She throws a terrified look over her shoulder, at you, and it makes your stomach twist in ugly regret.

Still, you can’t let her get away.

Mother would be disappointed.

You push off after her, and you think maybe you’ve won this time as you run directly at her heels until she stops. She plants her feet, spins, and swings her fist at you. You doubt she has ever done that before in her life but that doesn’t lessen the audible crack of her knuckles connecting with your face. You both yelp in pain and and she starts off again, much less quickly than before.

Blackness peppers your vision until you physically shake it away, but eventually you find your bearings and spot Beth along the path.

You’re frustrated now. You push into a hard run, faster than you’ve ever been, and you close the fifty or so meters between you and her in a matter of seconds. You don’t hesitate to snag her arm, feet skidding on the path as you yank her to a halt.

“Calm yourself,” you hiss as you wind your arm about her neck, your palm pressing against her mouth. She doesn’t relent, screaming and twisting, arching her back and throwing herself around until you wrap your other arm around her stomach, grab her hip, and pull her tight against you.

“Stop fighting,” you growl.

She pushes against your hold, shaking her head roughly back and forth and whining behind your hand. You dig your nails into her hip and add pressure against her mouth. Her breath tingles against your skin. You feel a rush, as if your stolen life is suddenly rushing back into your limbs. A pulse of release rushes to the tips of your fingers that are bent in tense opposition against her mouth and suddenly she stops struggling. The resistance drains from her muscles and she slumps, limp in your hold.

“Beth?” you ask. She doesn’t respond.

You pull her head back to see her face. Her eyes are wide, staring at something you cannot see, and your heart sinks. You couldn’t have killed her. You barely touched her.

Carefully, you drop her to the ground. You take a few breaths, your head spinning as you try to keep yourself under control. Above the rushing sounds in your head, you can hear her heartbeat thudding dully, echoing against the back of your skull.

You sigh in relief.

You drop to your knees, your hands hanging hesitantly in the space just above her, debating whether or not to even touch her. Should you leave her, pretend she got away? Should you take her to mother? You bite at the inside of your cheek, bracing yourself as you gently lower your hand to her cheek.

She is cold. Icy.

“Beth?”

She whimpers.

“Can you hear me?”

There’s a pause before a strangled moan slips from her lips. Her right hand trembles as it slowly slides across the ground, crumpling leaves until her fingers hit the edge of your boot. She feels her way up the toe and to the laces.

Your brow furrows as you watch her lift her hand and feel blindly across her stomach, fingers spreading wide as she grabs her left arm. Her brow furrows too as she pats her forearm, slowly at first until the patting quickens to something desperate. A soft sob catches in her throat.

Tears pool in her eyes.

You are lost.

It is blind faith that makes you gather her in your arms, blind faith that directs your pounding feet to the chapel. She clutches your shirt with her right hand.

The journey is long. In reality, the distance you cover is small, yet it feels like hours pass as you count her panicked heart beats, her faint, erratic breaths. You worry about jostling her as you run, scared to shake the last drops of life out of her.

You kick the chapel door open with your foot, and Mother spins around in surprise.

“Help,” is all you can choke out.

She tilts her head and looks you over before she nods and gestures to the closest table. You walk over and gently place Beth onto it.

“What have we here?”

Mother hums discontentedly, one hand on her hip and the other resting against her jaw. Her frown is hard, brows furrowed as her gaze sweeps up and down the girl.

“Mircalla, what have I told you?” she asks coolly, walking slowly around the girl. She drags her fingernail up Beth’s left arm, lightly at first, only a faint scratch line weaving its way up her arm. By the time she reaches her shoulder, Mother breaks skin like it’s paper, scarlet gushing from the incision without so much as a noise from the girl. Your stomach lurches.

Mother tuts and shakes her head. She brings her finger to her lips as she continues her inspection, licking thoughtlessly at the blood before she drops her hand back down and brushes her knuckle softly against Beth’s cheek. She blinks and you think it may be a flinch. Your mother smiles. “There we are, dear,” she murmurs softly. “You felt that, didn’t you?”

The fresh wave of tears in Beth’s eyes is answer enough and they spill down the side of her face. “Tell me when you can’t anymore.”

Mother drags her fingernails slowly down her cheek and when she reaches the left side of Beth’s neck, the girl whines in confusion. Mother stops and taps the side of her neck three times, leaving scratches along the jugular vein you can _see_ pulsing. “Nothing?”

The air is thick with the sharp metallic tang of blood and you wish you weren’t salivating, watching your mother talk to Beth like she is a precious treasure. You wonder if she can feel herself bleeding out through her bicep.

Mother looks up at you. Her eyes glint with a cruel amusement.

“You did quite the number on her,” she muses, looking back down. “It’s too bad really.”

She strokes her knuckles up Beth’s shoulder in something like affection before her fingers splay out to wrap about her neck. “She’s no use to us like this.”

She acts before you realize what she had planned and the crunching of bones echoes in your ears as she crushes Beth’s windpipe beneath her grasp. She chokes, her right hand jerking up to stop Mother, but she’s dead before she can even get hold of Mother’s hand.

Her arm hangs limply from the table.

You bite back the scream that threatens to spill out and lurch forward, and choking on unshed tears, you sputter out the only thought that enters your mind. “W-why?”

“Your actions have consequences, beautiful,” she says simply.

Everything is going too fast and your thoughts are a mess you can’t untangle and you just don’t _understand_. The less you understand the more you feel frustration bubbling up, collecting like toxic pressure in your chest until it bursts.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

She smirks. “Of course I did. You needed to learn.”

You’re frustration surges. She had kept you in the dark _yet again_.

“What _was_ that?”

“It’s power, dear. Power comes from aiding The Light.”

She shoves the table out of her way and you’re frozen in place. You watch her advance, prowling towards you until she is mere inches away. She grabs your wrist, holding it up between you and her, and you don’t understand.

Until it starts to sting. It _burns_ and you have to fight the scream building in your throat. You grit your teeth to hold back your call to mercy; it’s the last thing you have over her.

You try to ball your fist, but she squeezes tighter and you lose all control of your muscles as they are buried beneath the pain.

It’s too much.

“ _Stop_ ,” you cry.

She releases you, and the pain disappears. Instinctively, you wiggle your fingers to make sure they’re still there.

“For humans, it’s much worse,” she says by way of an explanation. “And it causes a more permanent damage. Pins and needles that never leave.”

You feel nothing but disbelief.

“You can suck the life out of them. It’s easier. Much less of a mess than those things,” she continues, reaching out to brush her finger under one of your fangs.

She turns back to Beth, and something stirs hot in your chest. You think maybe you can keep it down, but the more it swirls, the hotter it gets, the _bigger_ it feels until it’s bursting out of you. You’re _angry_.

“ _Why didn’t you tell me?_ ” you shriek, voice cracking like it hadn’t in _years_. Not since…not since you were a child.

If you had known then maybe you could have stopped it from happening in the first place.

She blinks at you as if she cannot understand what you’re feeling. Her expression is blank as she takes you in.

And then she _laughs_. It’s cold and condescending, so out of character that it puts you further on edge.

“What did you think was going to happen? You were going to hand her over and she was going to be _okay_?”

No, you didn’t.

Her brow furrows as she understands. A small, vicious smile twists onto her face. “It wasn’t because she _died_ , was it? It was because she died knowing _you_ killed her.”

It sounds stupid but that doesn’t stop the _yes_ that immediately answers in your head.

She takes a step closer to you, and her grin widens. “Did you really think she could ever _love_ you?” She laughs again, and shame spikes in your gut. You feel nauseated again. “You’re the monster. They’re made to hate you.”

She says it so simply. Like there’s nothing to be done. Like it’s how the world is _supposed_ to work.

“Be quiet!”

She pouts. It’s fake, you know it is, but it still throws you. “Just because they cannot love you doesn’t mean I can’t, Mircalla. I will _always_ love you.”

Acid crawls up your throat and pours from your mouth in a frustrated shout. You feel as if the walls are shaking, trembling with you in your rage.

( _they can’t be)_

You leave, furious at Mother. You give it no thought; you simply grab a bag, fill it with what little personal effects you have gathered, and leave.

You know your actions are childish but the betrayal in your stomach won’t fade.

You head north, an angry trail of spiteful bloodshed following in your wake.

You’ll show her. They’ll love you right until the moment you rip their hearts out. They can’t tell you otherwise, then.

You run until there’s nowhere left to run. The sea froths in front of you as you stand on the docks of a port city. You think you are in the Dutch Republic, though you aren’t sure exactly where your bloodstained pilgrimage has brought you.

The next vessel you see in port, you’re getting aboard to flee this continent, to flee _her_.

But for a port city, it does not see many ships. Your wait for transport may be longer than you expected.

You don’t mind, though. It is a pretty country with pretty girls and a pretty language. It may as well be a temporary home.

It takes you months to perfect your accent, but once you do, you blend right into the background.

Mostly.

Night is your glory. You stalk. You feed. You are exactly who you are supposed to be. ( _You_ are _a monster, no?_ )

Your actions go undetected for several weeks until you become careless. A few nighttime sightings of you, some maidens, and some blood have started... _rumors_.

You don’t think they will last.

_..._

_1715_

You enter the local bar and find it surprisingly empty despite the cool Saturday evening outside. A few men linger, but nobody piques your interest. No bar maids. No daughters. You sigh. Maybe they’ve wisened up more than you thought they would.

The barkeeper watches you warily as you sit down at a table by the wall.

You wave at him for a beer and he jumps in surprise, turning away and pretending he didn’t see you at all.

Sighing, you rub your forehead where a headache is forming. You don’t want to _leave_ because you had just gotten there, but then again, there’s nothing for you here.

Just when you scoot your chair back to leave, though, a girl you recognize comes bursting through the doors.

"There's a ship docking," she exclaims.

"The cargo ship, miss?" Someone asks.

She shakes her head. "It appears to be naval, sir."

"Of what allegiance?"

"I could not say. I saw no flag."

The barkeeper slips away and up the back staircase.

The room fills with low murmurs of excitement and the usual stir that new people brought. The very usual gossip.

_“I’ve heard pray of looters in the East.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous. No pirates would be foolish enough to raid here.”_

_“There’s nothing to take!”_

_“They could be passing through.”_

_“It very well could be navy.”_

The few men that had been around get up to leave, likely to go gather their family and to spread the word. God, it was going to be a madhouse.

You relish the silence, sitting there in the empty bar, allowing yourself some speculation of the mystery visitors. This was your chance, and you know it. No other ships docked here had been ones worth stowing away on; how would you board this one? Without the crew’s knowledge? Earn yourself an invitation?

You would have to wait and find out.

The barkeeper returns, his wife and daughter behind him in their nightgowns and undressed hair. You try hard not to laugh to yourself.

 _This poor man woke his family to help him_.

The barkeeper's daughter, who cannot be more than fourteen, rubs sleepily at her eyes as she walks toward an unoccupied table, putting her hands on the edge of it and trying to push it. You glance over at her father, who is busy moving the tables on the other side of the room with his wife.

The pair then go into the back and, a few moments later, reappear, struggling as they carry a new table into the room.

It makes sense now. They’re increasing the building’s capacity.

Beside you, the girl frowns and leans into the table with all her weight, only to have it move an inch. You can feel her frustration even through the muted chaos of the slowly filling room, and you see no harm in helping.

Standing, you trudge over to her. “Need some help, darling?”

She looks at you nervously, and you give her what you hope is a reassuring smile. You haven’t tried that in a while. She glances over at her father before nodding, shrugging her shoulders self-consciously. “Nothing to worry about, we’ll have it done in a moment,” you soothe, reaching out to stroke her upper arm.

From across the room the barkeeper hollers something angry. Possibly something involving ‘demon’ and ‘stay away.’ You glance over at him unfazed, and all his angry resolve fades into uncertainty. His daughter clears her throat, and slowly, you smirk at him, eyebrows quirking in amusement before you reach over and grab the edge of the table.

She turns and pushes, and you wait until she is leaning hard against it before you gently slide the table all the way against the wall.

He blinks, his jaw going slack before he quickly looks away in embarrassment.

You help her with the remaining tables, and the barkeeper does not put new tables out until you are once again seated at the furthest table in the back.

A steady stream of locals have entered, all curious about the ominous ship. All waiting to see just who will give them stories to tell for weeks to come.

The front door opens, and at least two dozen lumbering men enter. Their clothes appear to be a permanent shade of dirt, ragged and worn thin enough for you to see sun-worn skin on their arms and chests. Their chatter fills the room, barbaric and loud as they call the barkeep for drinks.

They are untamed and brutish as they make advances on the locals, that much you can tell through their broken Danish. An uncivilized mess of testosterone.

You groan and bury your face in your hands, senses overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of different conversations. Sighing, you lean on the table with your elbows and thread your hands through your hair.

You are about to take your leave and slip quietly out the side door when the atmosphere of the room changes. The main door opens and suddenly all the newcomers quiet, their shouting and guffawing reduced to low murmurs and downturned heads.

You watch the newest arrival stroll a few steps into the room, looking around at each and every pirate. They turn their head to your side of the room and it is the first time you can actually _see_ them (no, _her_ ).

She’s wearing well used brown leather boots with a pair of brown trousers tucked into them. An oversized General’s jacket rests over a white button up shirt though colors of it are too faded for you to tell which country they used to represent.

Her hair is dark, almost like yours, pulled in a loose ponytail over her shoulder, hugging her neck, under a large, wide brimmed hat perched on her head.

She is exactly what you have been waiting for.

She stops scrutinizing her crew when she spots you, and while you’re panicking inside, you hold her gaze unabashedly for a long moment. She tilts her head, and for a moment her eyes flit down before she holds your gaze again; in a split second decision, you smile coyly at her before looking away.

When you glance back, she is already starting toward you.

She approaches casually, all loose shoulders and masculine swagger. Strangely, you don’t find it as arrogant on her as on any of the men littering the docks.

“Uhh…” She pauses to see if she’s caught your attention, sucking an unsure breath between her teeth before she continues. “Engles? ...Englisch?”

Her accent is truly horrible. It makes you laugh. “If it means you don’t try German again, then yes. I do speak English.”

She grins sheepishly. “May I?” she asks, fingers dragging along the table as she hovers by the empty seat beside you. You nod and she straddles it.

“Bar language is usually the only language I need,” she explains. “And it’s...more or less universal…” As if to prove her point she flags down the bartender with a wave and a brandishing of two fingers. “I never quite saw the use in learning more.”

Her point is valid. Your English, however, is rusty and the accent feels out of place on your tongue before you even form the words.

“I assume the mating call is too?”

She barks a laugh, her body opening up as she relaxes into the conversation. “ _That_ is much more complicated.”

You tip your head. “Because you dress like a man or because you wish to be one?”

She bites her lip to fight a grin. “Very direct. Most people just pretend they can’t tell I’m a woman.”

You want to call her out on the play. Because you _know_ it’s a power play. Dress like a man but not enough to pass as one, knowing full well if you act like an authority no one in their right mind would dare to challenge you. You’ve seen it done countless times in cities across Europe. You’re impressed that she pulls it off so successfully in spite of her...thin frame.

Still, it’s much too heavy a topic for something as light as a simple seduction.

Instead you flash a smile, poking your tongue out and tracing it along the pointed end of your canine. “When your vocabulary is as restricted as mine, you tend to keep it simple.”

She doesn’t buy it, brow furrowing in doubt. “Are you implying you would have spoken differently were we speaking German?”

You narrow your eyes to feign deep thought.

“First of all,” you say pensively, “I would have said it much more eloquently.”

“Very convincing,” she teases.

You shrug nonchalantly.

Somewhere behind you a nervous, thudding heartbeat picks up. The barkeeper is avoiding you still. You sigh.

“You may want to go retrieve your drinks, Captain.”

You’re not sure which part of your sentence throws her off, that you know her drinks are waiting or that you know she is a Captain, but her confusion is clear.

“It’s after sunset,” you explain tiredly.

She does not understand, but still stands to collect her drinks. You hear hushed whispers from the rest of the inn’s patrons, but their words are lost beneath her heart beat echoing in your ears.

It’s a strange feeling. One moment, it is its own independent unit, easy and languid as she politely speaks with the barkeeper, the next, it feels like a part of you.

It takes you a moment to realise your heart’s pattern has matched hers almost perfectly.

Eventually she returns to her seat and slides one of the beers over to you, jolting you from your focus on your matching heartbeats. You grasp the beer and take a long drink, only to catch her steady gaze as you lower the glass from your lips.

“Is something the matter?”

She looks hesitant. “They fear you.”

You hum, playing at intrigue as you raise your eyebrows. “Do tell, Captain.”

She very well may have balked beneath all those layers.

“You haven’t heard the tales?”

Oh, you have.

You’ve gained quite the reputation in this town. During the day, you blend into the background, just another pretty girl. At night you become the bedtime story told to naughty children. The reason to be afraid of the dark.

A chalk white maiden, living in the shadows, waiting to seduce the innocent and beautiful.

You swallow your scoff before it escapes.

Yes, you know exactly what _they_ think but you’re curious to know what _she_ thinks.

“There are too many mystic spinners and not enough agreement,” you say absently. “Which ones have graced your ears?”

She leans in to whisper and you follow suit, making sure she can see your smirk.

“They speak of a seductress, a siren. She lures those caught unaware into the shadows and feeds on their love and their beauty.”

You quirk your eyebrows up, looking around as though you are lost. “Do you consider me in the shadows?”

“They mustn’t all be literal.” She grins and gestures at you with her glass. “Besides. Sirens are very clever, I’m told.”

You laugh deeply, the sound pouring from your throat, and casually let your hand fall atop her wrist. “I’m much worse, dear.”

You dip your fingers beneath her cuff and gently stroke the soft skin of her wrist. The darkening of her eyes is unmistakable.

“Aren’t we all?” she asks, voice low and scratchy.

“No, Captain. Some of us are truly doomed.”

She frowns and leans back a fraction of an inch. “So…do you not deny their stories?”

You grin at her faltering conviction, brushing your thumb against the back of her hand. “Do you believe yourself innocent?”

She swallows and the thrumming of her heartbeat in your ears is a resounding ‘no’.

“Do you believe me capable of what they say?”

“No,” she says, “but you look as though you were made to lure me away.”

“All the more reason for you to believe them.”

…

She doesn’t believe them.

A few more drinks, brushes of your foot along her shin, and well timed laughs and you’re stumbling down the dock under her arm, nothing but the moonlight to guide you.

You trip over a board on the gangway, causing you both to erupt into a fit of drunken laughs before you step onto the rather impressive ship. She pulls you towards the captain’s quarters only to push you up against the door. She’s all hands and hips, caressing everywhere she can get her fingers on. Her mouth latches onto yours, nipping and sucking at your lips and sending excitement surging through you.

Your head is swimming. God, she smells so delicious. One of your hands tangles in her hair as the other nudges her hat askew. She pulls you away from the door to swing it open and nudge you backwards into the room.

You saunter backwards, eyeing the length of her body. For someone of her stature, you’re almost surprised she’s so wild.

“Like what you see?” She smiles smugly as she swaggers towards you. You smirk.

“You could say that.”

She stops in front of you, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “Well?”

You hook your fingers into her belt and tug her close, unlatching it while you keep eye contact with her. Drawing it from around her waist, you drop it with a _clang_ and watch as her eyes follow it before looking back up at you with rapidly dilating pupils.

You push her overcoat off her shoulders unceremoniously and bite your lip, watching as her chest rises and falls with every quickened breath. Your hands run over her collarbone, ghosting along her neck before her head lulls to the side.

You step closer, nuzzling your face into her neck, feeling her pulse thunders centimeters below. Your mouth waters at her sweet scent.

Kissing along her neck, your hands run down her tunic, pausing at her chest for a couple of teasing caresses, before reaching the hem. You run your nails over her stomach, smirking triumphantly against her neck when you simultaneously elicit a gasp and her pulse quickens.

You pull away to snatch her hat and set it atop your head before flinging the tunic off her lithe frame, leaving her in an interestingly sexy combination of trousers and boots.

“Now who’s the wench?” Your smirk turns to a gasp of your own as she picks you up in one swoop and deposits you on the bed, one leg situated and pushing ever so slightly between your own.

You quickly roll on top of her, adjusting the tricorne hat on your head with one hand, the other pressing flat to her chest to keep her down. You watch as her eyes fill with determination and she thrusts up to try to knock you off balance but you just laugh instead, grinding down against her, grinning as she grinds back up in response.

“Now, now, captain. Steady yourself.” You release her and her hands gravitate to your hips, kneading the fabric. You unlace your corset before tossing it to the side and temporarily displace the hat off your head to pull your thin shirt over your head. Her hands trace the newly revealed skin, tracing down your navel before running along your hem.

“You take too long.” You watch her abs flex as she leans up to remove your skirt and shift before she kicks off her boots and tugs down her own trousers. She flops back down, completely bare and then props herself up on an elbow, a hand reaching up to brush your neck.

It’s a soft gesture that you wouldn’t necessarily expect from someone like her, but as she confiscates her tricorne to fling it perfectly on top of her desk, you roll your eyes at her distraction. This time when she sinks back onto the mattress, she pulls you with her, one arm hooked around the back of your neck.

After a few deep kisses, you duck under her arm and level your face to her chest, nuzzling one breast with your nose before bringing your hand up to trace circles around her nipple. Her back arches only slightly, urging you to put more force behind your touches.

Your mouth travels over to her other breast and engulfs her nipple, biting it gently and eliciting a guttural sound from her before you run your tongue over it soothingly. Her hands tangle in your hair and she pulls you ever closer to her breast, though there is already no space between your skin

Goosebumps erupt over her skin as your hand travels from her breast to stomach in a firm downward scratch.. Her hips move up to chase your hand as it ghosts across her hips and upper thigh, only briefly teasing her mound.

After too many moments of teasing, she grabs your hand and pushes it towards her center.

“Feisty little captain,” you mutter against her skin before nipping her breast again.

“If you’d bothered to feel, you’d’ve notice I’ve been ready.” Her voice is breathy and hot, her chest rising and falling quickly, her hips thrusting and back arching every few moments. You’ve certainly been able to smell her since the tavern but that would never stop you from having your fun.

Your fingers trace around her, frustrating her more until the second she opens her mouth to hurry you on. Before she can get any intelligible word out, you thrust a couple fingers into her and her back arches sharply, a long gasp rolling from her lips.

Her hand slides up your pumping arm and onto your back, scratching all along the way. You let out your own moan and bury your face in her neck, sucking and nipping.

You can feel her getting closer and closer and you increase your tempo, pushing just a little harder. Her body jerks with a loud gasp before crumbling into a mass of spasms. You slowly remove your fingers from inside of her, your insides clenching as you feel her quivering around you.

Pulling back just enough to inspect her neck, you grin smugly to yourself. All that blood just below the surface makes you want to bite her, to drain her right here and now.

So focused on the pretty pinks and reds making up the side of her neck, she rolls over on top of you, straddling your leg and spreading her wetness across it while she grinds on top of you.

“Not enough to satisfy you?” You look up at her amused, content to watch her use your body as she wishes.

“You’ve never heard of _prolonging_ the moment?” she purrs roughly with a pointed roll of her hips. She pushes you further into the mattress with one hand on your collarbone before scratching lines down your torso harshly.

Your back arches abruptly, digging her nails in more and your body quivers hard underneath her. She grins, biting her bottom lip, and you wish you were biting it instead. She wastes no time and plunges two fingers into you, drawing a satisfying moan from your lips. She leans down and kisses you fervently.

Your hips push against her hand and she pushes her own hips against yours, trying to keep you from squirming as much.

You dig your nails into the nape of her neck before dragging your fingers up into her hair to urge her closer. She hums, the sound deep and _filthy_ , and grinds against you. You revel in how raw your back feels, how _hard_ she fights back. It doesn’t even matter that you can break her with both hands tied behind your back.

There is not a submissive bone in her body. And, for the first time, you allow yourself to be satisfied without having to do the work yourself.

In a matter of minutes, you’re both rocking in time with her thrusts and her neck is just so deliciously close and bare. Rolling on top of her again, she remarkably keeps her timing of thrusts and you gasp as she hits new spots inside you.

You forget your manners (mostly just your English), a mix of prayers and expletives spilling out in German as you press closer to her.

Head nuzzled into her neck, hot puffs of air warming her already hot skin, you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. You can feel your fangs extending and your mouth waters as her pulse thumps against your lips. As your climax courses through your body, you sink your fangs into her neck; she barely feels it, caught up in her rush of post-orgasm haze. You bite a little harder, sucking until you feel the vibration of her contented hum against your lips.

How easy it would be to suck her dry, a perfectly satisfying end to the surprisingly wonderful night. _God_ , she tastes so sweet. Sliding your nails into her hair, you grip her closer, and she whimpers, her hand searching for yours. It isn’t until she tangles her fingers between yours, squeezes you even _closer_ instead of trying to push you off do you realize it is a sound of _pleasure_.

 _Oh_.

You test, biting her a little harder, drinking more.

Her moan is unmistakeable, and the twisting it causes in your stomach is nothing less than _encouraging_ ; it would be _so_ damn easy to take just a little too much and part of you _thrills_ at the thought of killing this perfectly rebellious woman, who almost seems as though that is precisely what she _wants_.

She clutches at your back, all nails and upward press of hips, and although your gut says _more_ , you find yourself hesitating. Stopping. Pulling _back_. ( _how very strange_ )

You look down at her, and she is smiling devilishly up at you, even as her eyelids droop heavily, her body sated and content. You lick your lips and trace a finger over her marked neck, and her mouth opens slightly in response before her smile is back.

“You’re the give what you take, take what you give sort, aren’t you?” she murmurs sleepily.

You don’t have an answer, especially for the peculiar softness you swear you see somewhere masked behind her fatigue. And, for lack of a better word, you are _startled_ at a mirroring emotion tangling in your chest.

You want to _kiss her? Softly_ , no less?

But your fangs are still in the way.

Slowly, you lean back down, brushing your lips against the wound in something resembling a kiss. It is the closest you will get, you suppose.

God, even the hint of her taste is almost too teasing to resist, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you vaguely remember your plan to use the vessel as your escape from Europe. You can’t do that with a dead captain to the only ship worth sailing on.

At least that is the excuse you give yourself as you drop your head to her shoulder and close your eyes.

**...**

You awaken to movement.

Blinking several times, you take in your surroundings. Wooden ceiling, wooden walls. Squinting, you put your hand down by your side and push to try and sit yourself up.

The hold you had your hand on gives, swaying and effectively catching you off guard as you fall. With minimal scrambling, you get your bearings just in time to find the floor rapidly approaching your face. Were it not for your above average reflexes, you probably would have broken your nose, but a quick tuck of your chin and you roll easily onto the ground before up onto your feet.

She claps a few times, and it draws your attention. She is seated at a desk of sorts, with a spark of amusement in her eyes. “Impressive.”

You frown as you survey exactly where you are, glancing about the room until you spy a hammock behind you and a bed in front of you. A bed you are _fairly_ certain you fell asleep in. And yet, there you were, wide awake after falling headfirst from the hammock.

“Did you...move me?”

She takes her time answering, assessing your reaction intently. “Yes,” she finally says, looking you over and biting her lip in amusement.

“May I ask why?”

She tosses an apple back and forth between her hands, one leg nonchalantly atop the desk.

“You may.” An impish smirk twists her mouth.

You narrow your eyes and slowly saunter towards her.

“Why did you move me?” You get close enough to dance your fingers along her boot, situating yourself between her legs.

She rolls the apple a few more times before holding it in one hand, inspecting the weight and feel of it. “God I’ve missed these,” she deflects, rubbing her thumb much more provocatively over the curve of the apple than she needs to. “What is it about apples that are just so _satisfying_?” She looks up at you, minutely proud of herself.

You lean against her propped leg, trailing your fingers along it purposefully. With the other, you pluck the apple from her hand and take a loud bite out of it before plopping it back in her hand. “Well, that one certainly didn’t fit your standards.”

She scrapes her teeth against her own lip as she smiles wide, dropping the apple onto the table and settling further back in her chair. She raises her eyebrows in smug satisfaction. “You seem to have a knack for sinking your teeth into things.”

Growling, you squeeze her thigh, bending down slowly until you’re at her level. “Answer my damn question.”

Her eyes flit back and forth between yours, her smugness still evident. She pointedly glances down at your lips as she licks her own, biting back another smirk as she replies. “Minimizes movement. Usually helps novices adapt to the sea. Just looking after you.”

You smile at her. “Was that so hard, darling?” you murmur.

You linger there tauntingly. It isn’t until she looks up at your eyes once again that you start to stand upright, but she catches hold of your necklace, yanking you back down to where you were. You inhale sharply, surprised at how much you _like_ it as she holds you there. “Are you always this teasing?” she asks quietly, tilting her head slightly.

“Afraid so, Captain.”

She grins, twisting the necklace around her finger to reel you in a little closer. She tips her chin up, her breath ghosting against your lips before she retracts half an inch, nose almost brushing the side of yours. Your heart stutters an anticipatory beat.

You can play her game.

“I suppose now wouldn’t be a good time to ask you why I’m partially clothed again, then?” you whisper, glancing pointedly at her lips before back into her eyes.

“No,” she murmurs, low in her throat. “It’s not. But if it bothers you so much I could retract the favor.”

She moves in for her kiss and you pull back just enough for her to miss. You bite your lip teasingly, trying not to smirk as she looks at you in shock, and there is a split second where neither of you move a muscle.

Her eyes are alight with a newfound hunger. An accepted challenge. She tugs harder on your necklace, and you allow it this time, kissing her softly where she wants it hard, waiting for her to pull it out of you.

She pulls, alright.

She pulls on that chain until it starts to bite into your skin, until it actually _snaps_ , and only then do you kiss her harder, light fingers sliding slowly up her thigh.

Her lips falter for a moment, twisting into a smirk against you before she nips at your bottom lip.

You could get used to this.

That is until a knocking stops you dead. She pulls back enough to frown, but keeps you close with a firm grip at your waist.

“What is it?” she calls, an unmistakable bite in her voice.

“Crew’s ready to embark, Captain.”

She purses her lips. “Count heads while you wait for me.”

A muffled “yes, Captain,” sounds as his footsteps echo away.

She slouches back in her chair once more, frowning at you in contemplation. You squeeze her knee reassuringly, still situated between her legs.

She rests her hand over her mouth as she thinks, looking you over slowly. “What say you to a round at sea?” she asks fairly hesitantly, like she already presumes your “no.”

You quirk your eyebrows at her, pretending to contemplate. “Will there be crime?”

Her eyebrows twitch down in confusion for half a second before she catches your playful tone. “Most certainly.”

“Pillaging?”

She sits up again, swallowing down her grin. “We’ll leave nothing short of destruction in our wake, my dear.”

The endearment strikes sour in your ears, nothing but Mother weighing it down on you. You brush it off, reaching out and stroking the side of her face with your nails. “Please,” you command softly, leaning over her with your best alluring smile. “Call me Carmilla.”

She bites her lip suggestively, moving slowly to stand up, brushing against you teasingly until she’s fully upright and in your breathing space. She leans in and presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. “That I will,” she murmurs in your ear before turning on her heels and heading for the door.

She snags her hat from off the desk, fitting it onto her head and adjusting. She swoops her hair all over one shoulder, twisting it around her hand once to ensure it stays before exiting.

You laugh when you realize it was to cover up her neck.

It takes you a few minutes, but you finally work on properly dressing and walking out to join her. On deck, the wind is chilling. To one side, the crew is lined up at attention (or as at attention as any of these heathens would know), watching with wary eyes as she paces in front of them.

“Anyone new here ought to know one thing and one thing only.” She pauses, swivelling on her heels to sweep her pointed finger in front of each one of them. “The work is good, and so long as you give me that, you have my protection. But if you cross me,” she says slowly, taking a few threatening steps toward a particular cluster of men, “it will be the last thing you get to regret in your short and meaningless lives.”

Some of the men out of her line of sight are trying not to laugh. You assume it is because they’ve already heard this speech before.

With that, she disperses them with a wave and a few commands you do not know the meaning of. They run about, untying things and tying others. She strides toward the top deck by the wheel, head down as she speaks quietly with a man.

He looks more distinguished than the others. Her second, maybe? Is that what they call it? Right hand? The English phrase is escaping you.

Someone passes you by, and you touch his arm to gain his attention. He stops and looks up, only to jerk away from your touch. You frown at him. He looks utterly terrified.

“Who is that?” you ask, pointing toward the Captain and the man.

He blankly stares at you for a beat. It isn’t until you wave your pointed finger in frustration that he diverts his gaze to the pair.

“Captain,” he says, confused.

You roll your eyes. “The other.”

He frowns at you. “First mate?”

Yes, that’s the word.

“Thank you.”

His look of bewilderment only strengthens as he begins backing away, and it isn’t until he is halfway across the ship that he finally turns his back to you.

You want to ask her about it, but when you glance back to her, she seems rather busy, pointing toward the skyline as the First Mate holds loosely onto the wheel. So instead you walk to the ship’s railing and wait.

You do not consider the true ramifications of the decision you have made until you are watching the shoreline disappear behind a flat ocean. Standing there, wind whipping at your face, watching the world slip away, you have a single, unwavering thought: you may have made a tactical error.

Here you are, stranded on a boat with nowhere bigger than a shoebox to tempt fate with hours in the sun, stuck with a bunch of men you have no interest in eating, and a woman who is your only _real_ source of blood for the next several months.

This may have been what Mattie meant when she called you rash.


	4. Storms Coming (part 2.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirates have the most confusing code of ethics.

_ 1715 _

She has the strangest habits. No, they  _ all _ have the strangest of habits. Everyone on board gives you the widest berth possible. Some refuse to even look at you when you stroll the top decks. At first you had thought it because you were seen as the Captain’s somehow. Her property no one had permission to look at. But the more it happens, especially when she is not present, the more you begin to question it.

They were rugged and untamed and unruly but for the most part, you found them to have quite a moral compass. Not in the strictest of senses, but you saw very few fights aboard the ship. A few drunken brawls, sure. Once you saw the Captain’s second punch a lower crew member in the nose for saying “good luck.”

You would even call their eating habits strange. Gorging themselves until everything decent was gone, only to be left with bread that was hard enough to knock a man out and meat so dehydrated with salt you could smell it from its storage spot below decks.

She was also quite possessive. Unabashed kisses above deck, firm hands on hips and waist. And if you were anyone else maybe you’d consider it worth blushing over. Being so lewd in front of other men. You figure out why, though, for the most part, you think). It is possibly to remind them that you are hers and no one else’s, but the more it happens, the more you think it is to remind them of her dominance. Her masculinity compared to theirs.  _ She  _ has the girl and  _ she _ has the power and they are best to remember that. She is not afraid to use you.

You admire that about her.

That does little to sate your curiosity.

You hold off a full week before you cannot help but ask her. 

It wasn’t your intention. Honestly. You hadn’t  _ planned _ to interrogate her in post-coital cool down. Lying there, sheets loosely pooled across two pairs of legs, two hips, the questions begin to swirl as you ruminate. Each new question threatens to break the barricade of your teeth, and before long, the words just fall from your mouth as you lay on your back beside her. “Why am I treated as the walking plague on board?”

“I hope it does not offend your delicate character,” she teases, voice raspy. She rolls her head to look at you, fingers tracing lines up and down your shoulder. You shrug.

“Not always. Makes a girl worry she may need a bath.”

At this, she snorts, rolling slowly onto her side, propping her head up with her elbow. “Like any of them could smell you over their own stench.”

You smirk. Still does not answer your question, but you appreciate the humor. “What is it, then?”

“Pirates believe women to be bad luck.” She brushes your hair away from your face, her knuckle brushing against your neck once. She purses her lips and furrows her brows in consideration. “All sailors, actually.”

“All  _ men _ ,” you mutter bitterly in correction.

She bites her lip with her impending smirk, tracing her finger lightly across the swell of your breast and underneath it. “Not to worry though.” She pauses long enough for you to roll your head to look at her. “Women may be bad luck; naked women, however, are quite the opposite.”

You hum, stretching sleepily, arching your back until satisfaction saturates your bones. You catch the way her lips part momentarily. Smirking, you roll onto your side, running your finger slowly down the slope of her waist. “So  _ that’s _ why you’ve kept me so busy in here, hmmm?” you ask flirtatiously, following your finger with your eyes as it slips down her stomach. 

She hums back distractedly, eyes watching as you kiss your way down her ribs, one at a time.

You kiss the jutted bone of her hip lightly, exhaling against her skin as you linger close. You glance up in time to see her eyes flutter closed in anticipation, and you smirk to yourself, nipping the same spot before pulling back. “It has absolutely  _ nothing _ to do with you enjoying yourself. It is but merely a sacrifice to keep your crew safe.”

She chuckles, lifting her head back up to inspect you. “If I deny such accusations will you try to prove me wrong?”

You answer with a simple hum.

She slides her fingers through your hair in what you originally think is something affectionate, just before she finds a hold, gripping a handful and using it to push you back down to her skin. The pain in your scalp spikes pleasure down your abdomen, but now your interest is piqued. She has teased you with the information you have been longing for.

You certainly aren’t going to stop now.

“What else is there?”

“Else of what?” she laughs in amusement.

“Strange pirate etiquette.”

She sighs. Talking seems to be the furthest thing on her mind, but she obliges you. She frowns as she thinks, and you drop your head to her stomach, using it as a temporary pillow. Her hand automatically falls to your head, running her fingers once through your hair and leaving them caught in it.

“This is difficult,” she mumbles. 

You chuckle.

“It’s true,” she says adamantly. “Thinking up rules you naturally came upon.”

“I don’t require  _ all  _ of them,” you remind her with another small laugh. “Learning is simply what I know.”

“Then how could I refuse?” She strokes your hair again. “First rule. You cannot change a ship’s name.”

“Never?” you ask, tracing your finger underneath her navel in lazy lines.

Her stomach ripples from a quiet laugh. “Do you  _ wish _ to make this complex?”

You bite your lip. “No more interruptions,” you promise. You then grimace. “One more. What is this ship’s?”

She tries very hard not to look amused. “ _ The Devil’s Compass _ .”

“This used to be a naval ship,” you argue. “I refuse to believe they use such crude names officially!”

She laughs airily, raising her hand above her head. “I will swear on whatever you request. That was her name when I...came upon her.”

You hum knowingly.

“What else?” she asks herself. “Ah! This,” she says, and you turn your head to look up, chin to her abs. She is fiddling with her earring. It hangs in a ring through her lobe, thick and rudimentary but golden none the less. “Is what many wear after crossing the equator.”

You grin. “To  _ boast _ ,” you infer, and she rolls her eyes.

“Must you always mouth off?”

You tip your head to kiss her stomach once. “Is that not one of my redeeming qualities?”

“Not when you use it to manipulate  _ me _ ,” she scolds.

You shift enough to nip her thigh, and the air rushes out of her between gritted teeth, tipping her head back.

“No?” you ask playfully, crawling between her legs. “You gave me quite the strong impression this was all you wanted right now.”

She groans, pressing her lips in a hard line, frustrated. “You often render me confused.”

“Oh?” you prompt, hiding your smirk with a quick kiss on her inner thigh.

“I can never remember what I want when you’re nigh,” she admits. After a moment she opens her eyes, mouth hanging open in realization. “Maybe you  _ are _ a walking plague.”

You gasp, unable to contain the open mouthed smile that follows.

“My sincerest apologies, dear Carmilla, but you must be eradicated,” she explains as solemnly as she can muster before playfully grabbing you.

You shriek as she (barely) tickles you before wrapping you completely up in her arms. “Oh  _ woe _ ,” you sigh dramatically. “I am at your  _ mercy _ .”

She laughs against your cheek, unable to complete the kiss she had been attempting. “Bad news for your ladyship; pirates have  _ no _ mercy.”

You roll your eyes. But all the banter has reminded you of your hunger. Luckily enough for you, she does not seem to mind the biting. Sex has been a decent enough cover thus far. 

Squirming in her arms, you manage to roll over to face her, burying your face against her neck and nipping playfully.

She groans.

“You,” she mutters to conceal her almost laugh, “need to make your mind up.”

You bite higher at the juncture of her neck and jaw. She sighs and relents, loosening her arms around you.

Now all you have to do is keep this ruse up until you reach land again for a  _ real _ meal.

…

_ 1716 _

It strikes you one night, curled up in a mess of limbs in her hammock, your head against her chest. The most peculiar sense of familiarity, as if you’ve been here before, though you know you have not.

You lace your fingers through her limp ones and caress her hand with your thumb. For a moment, a spark of a second, the hole you hadn’t even noticed carved out of your chest feels perfectly healed.

Maybe it was from earlier in the evening. The ship had docked in a city with royalty, and the crew had subsequently gained a lot of wealth. You had joined in the mayhem  _ gladly _ , taking hostages, killing men in your way.

It had been _gloriously_ _fun_ , and when she had caught you with your face and dress covered in blood, two bodies at your feet, she had just _grinned_ and taken your hand and taught you where people hide their valuables.

That had to be it. You simply were not used to being  _ yourself _ (for the most part), in front of a human.

You drift back to sleep, comfortable in your conclusion.

**...**

An excited hum is in the air when you step from the Captain’s quarters. Half the usual number of men were on deck, the rest sound as thundering steps on the lower decks near the ammunitions haul.

You scan the faces for her, and even she seems unusually happy, smiling almost  _ sweetly _ at you as you approach.

“What is there to celebrate?” you ask curiously, glancing around.

Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “Bounty.” 

“How so?”

She drapes her arm over your shoulders and points into the distance ahead of you. You look in the general direction she indicated; there is a single dot near the horizon, and when you squint you can just make out the edges of another ship.

“What’s to say there’s anything of value on it?”

She grins as she bends her elbow to pull you in for half a hug. “Rumors of a ship stealing from the Spanish in the past week.”

You nod slowly, lifting your hands up to hold her forearm like a perch against your collarbone. “And since we haven’t, someone else had to.”

“You’re a quick one,” she says, and it almost sounds like pride.

She kisses your hair before gently extracting herself from you and disappearing below deck. You walk to the ship’s edge and lean against it, peering down at the water crashing against the ship walls. One by one, the cannon doors swing open, the barrel of each cannon slowly inching out.

She wasn’t just raiding this ship. She was destroying it.

You suppose that was what being in pirate competition was like.

Behind you, you can hear her voice again as she begins organizing the men into groups and constructing a strategy. When you look at the ship in the distance again, it has gotten significant closer. The men look like tiny dots and the sails look like handkerchiefs. 

The strategy speech is unfolding into a rally of strength. A promise of loyalty as she orders them to action. But somewhere, small and insignificant, you catch the the tail end of an utterance not meant for your ears.

" _ What's the use, the woman's luck we've got. _ "

But it is not just you that heard. All chaos onboard screeches to a halt, voices immediately dying out in a complete and unwavering silence.

When you scan their focus, it is easy to find the source of the comment, everyone else now at least two paces from him. He was new. Someone she had picked up at the most recent port stop.

She shoves the closest crew member out of her way, and the others are quick to clear a path for her as she storms right for him.

She grabs him by the shirt collar and yanks him into her space. She towers over him, leaning down until he begins to shrink away. “Say it to my face, sailor.”

He blinks, and for a moment you think he may fold that easily. His conviction wavers as she slowly but steadily pulls him up higher, clenching his shirt so tightly  in her fists that he must stand on his toes to keep his balance.

“No way we’re takin’ a ship like that with a woman on board.”

She sneers at him, and with a flex of her arms, she hoists him off the ground until his eyes are level with hers. His hands struggle uselessly against her grip, legs kicking to find the ground but it’s at least two inches away from him.

“So then what exactly was your goal aboard this vessel, sailor?”

He doesn’t know how to respond, and you almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“Did you think,” she starts roughly, loud enough for everyone else to hear, “you would waltz your gentlemanly arse in here and what?”

She drops him to the ground and shoves him back in the same rough motion, knocking him onto the floor. “Just frilly gossip your way up the ladder?”

The rest of her crew scurries to get out of their way as she advances on him, solid step after solid step against his clumsy hand over hand crabwalk.

“Who is your quarrel with?” she asks threateningly. “Me or her?”

For a split second, he catches your eye, and you can see him playing out each answer in his head. You can  _ see  _ the realization in his eyes as he concludes just how tightly he is backed in a corner. Insult the captain or insult the captain’s wench.

Both will probably end him in the bottom of the ocean. 

“N-neither,” he stammers out, stopping his retreat when there is no where else for him to go but over the side of the ship.

“Really?” she asks in dark amusement. Slowly, she crouches down between his spread legs, still above him with unwavering eye contact. “I was looking forward to fighting as men.”

She waits for his answer, but his silence continues. 

“Fine. A coward’s death for the cowardly man.” She turns her back to him as she walks away

“ _ W-what? _ ”

He scrambles to his feet and chases after her. “That’s-that’s not necessary-I just-”

She spins fast on her feet, drawing her sword and swiftly placing it to his neck. She glances at her crew with a hard glare, and all of them look away. Once again she grabs a fistful of his shirt to pull him closer. “ _ Do you think I have a choice anymore?”  _ she hisses under her breath.

He doesn’t have time to answer before she continues, no longer under the watchful gaze of her crew. “You disrespect me and my decisions, you go. Simple as that. Do you think for a  _ second _ if I show  _ leniency _ they will even  _ hesitate _ to do the same as you?”

She drags the flat part of the blade threateningly down his throat. “Do you know what’s kept me here?”

You and he both know the answer. She says it anyway.

“Fear. And the respect that comes with it. I am not losing that in one night because some arrogant  _ child _ thought he could lay claim.”

She looks at you briefly, and you look away, pretending you cannot hear.

“So, you die tonight.”

She withdraws and lowers her sword, sheathing it. “Someone take this mutineer below decks,” she shouts.

At least half of her crew runs forward. She stomps her foot and immediately they jolt back. “ _ One _ person. Everyone else? Back to your posts. We are  _ not _ losing this ship.”

They all stare at her. “ _ Now _ ,” she shouts, unsheathing her sword halfway in the vaguest of threats.

Springing into action, they all begin ordering things to each other and running off in different directions. In the chaos, you slip forward and grab him by the shirt collar. He might as well have  _ dinner _ written right across his forehead.

She eyes you for a moment, considering whether or not to deny you the privilege. You straighten your shoulders, holding her gaze and firmly asserting yourself.

She comes to the decision that you will be fine, for she nods once and turns back to the rest of her crew.

He sputters the whole way below deck as you yank him by the collar, often pulling hard enough to pick him off the ground for a second. He could have gone completely limp and you probably would not have noticed.

In the privacy of the small brig, his incoherent stutters turn to words, pleas, as though you have any say in what happens to him.

“You have to help me,” he whispers desperately. “She’ll send me to die at sea. I...I-”

You shush him, running your fingers along the slope of his neck. Your stomach is angry and restless.

“Don’t worry,” you murmur. “It’ll be quick.”

He looks confused for a moment, but when you sink your teeth into his neck, he doesn’t yell. Doesn’t fight. Maybe he knew as well as you this was better.

It leaves you refreshed, and when you drop him to the ground, you flex your muscles, testing the strength coursing through them.

This was what you missed most about land. Full meals. Full strength. At the same time, though, you felt more human here. Less killing, more living. Who knew that would be something you  _ wanted _ ( _ maybe _ ).

You rummage through his pockets to find a knife, and use it to make the wound look a little more self inflicted and a little less familiar to her. Hopefully it will be enough to make her believe it.

Wiping your mouth for good measure, you head back above decks to find most of the crew has boarded the other ship, ropes tying the two vessels together.

You easily cross to the other ship on the less than stable board perched atop both ships’ railings. In all the noise, the swords clanging and guns firing, you hear her shouts of encouragement. Following the voice, you find her, all flashing teeth and fluid strikes with her sword. She uses her whole body when she fights, stepping into swings, leaning with her hips and twisting with the momentum each of her attacks bring.

She doesn’t fight, she  _ dances _ , and it’s incredible.

And you’re standing in the fray,  _ watching _ , when you catch the sound of someone approaching behind you. You turn around and dodge his swing with a quick sidestep (too quick to be human but  _ god _ it feels good to be on a blood high). He tries again, but you just push his sword through his chest, hilt first, before spinning back to find her.

She is grinning at you.

But you cannot savor the moment for  _ whatever  _ she had ordered her crew to find, they had gotten, for they shout the retreat signal.

She guides you away with her hand on the small of your back and her sword still drawn in defense.

When all of the crew had safely returned, she gives the okay to fire, and the cannons blare loud and unmistakable below you.

You watch the other ship crack under fire. Splinter and sink like it had not been a sturdy and  _ massive _ vessel but instead like a glass vase that had been  _ built _ to break.

You are in awe of her today.

…

Later in the night, she asks you about the mutineer. If he had said anything about wanting to kill himself or if you had seen anything.

You told her no, and that was the last she had said of it.

…

_ 1717 _

She taps you awake, or at least out of your imitation of sleep.

“Come on,” she whispers, impatient excitement colouring her usually harsh voice. It makes her sound softer, more feminine than you have ever heard her be.

“Hmm?” 

“I have something to show you.”

You sit up and find her standing at the bedside. She’s in her white undershirt, sleep trousers tucked into her only pair of boots. She bites her lip and reaches out, grabbing your hands and pulling you to your feet.

“Close your eyes.”

You laugh softly at her haste. “Let me dress.”

“You don’t need to!” she protests. “Just come.” 

She tugs on your hands, but you stand your ground, pulling her closer instead. “Can I at least put on some shoes? I don’t wish to be pulling splinters from my toes for the next...four hours?”

“No,” she says indignantly, “it will take too long.”

She pulls on your hands again and you take a few steps forward into her. She scoops you into her arms wordlessly, a playful smirk on her lips. 

You chuckle. “We’re in the middle of the ocean. Surely whatever you wish to show me isn’t going anywhere.”

“Shhhh,” she insists as your arms instinctively loop around her neck. “Close your eyes.”

She wiggles the arm hooked around your thighs to elicit a response.

“I am!” you laugh as you follow her instructions.

“Don’t lie.”

You peek your eye open to see her glaring at you, her nose crinkled. Sighing, you roll your eyes. “Fine.”

For extra emphasis you put your left hand over your eyes. “Satisfied?”

There is a pause. “I suppose.”

You let your head fall against her collarbone as she walks, a little clumsily, through the cabin door and onto the main deck. She takes gentle steps across the ship, and you breathe in the cool night air. It smells of the sea and beauty. 

She lowers you onto what feels like a blanket. You sit there obediently, hugging your knees and squeezing your eyes shut tighter. “May I open?” you ask.

“Patience,” she mumbles from somewhere beside you.

You feel the air move as she reaches for you. You can feel the heat coming from her fingers as she holds them in front of your chest, hesitating. You give her time, holding yourself still, and carefully she presses her palm flat to your chest until you allow her to guide you onto your back.

You lie there, waiting as she rustles beside you some more. Eventually she too stills, arm pressed against yours.

“Now you may.”

It is love at first sight.

Thousands upon millions of stars, brighter than you’ve ever seen, spanning every direction. There are no buildings, no hills, nothing to hide them from your wide eyes.

They glow and sparkle above you, unimpeded, seemingly close enough that you could reach up and run your fingers through them.

You can never forget this vision. You hope one day you can look back at this and remember exactly how strangely your heart is beating as you take in each dazzling star.

“It’s…” You don’t know what to say. You didn’t even know this many stars existed, that you could look up at night and see more light than dark. “Divine.”

You roll your head to the side and the smile on her face is even more dazzling than the sky.

You fully turn to face her, head propped on one hand as your other grips her hand closest to you. Lifting it to your lips, you kiss it and watch as she turns away from the vast blanket of stars. “You’re divine.”

She stares at you deadpan then covers your face with her hand. “Hush.” A smile twitches on your lips. “You’re ruining the moment.”

You nip at the fleshy part of her palm and she giggles, pushing your face away from her before retracting her hand.

“I mean it,” she says adamantly. “You are much too romantic for your own good.”

You bite your lip in half a grin as you draw yourself nearer to her. “Says the party guilty of taking me  _ stargazing _ .”

She kisses your nose as an answer. You scrunch it to feign disgust.

Laughing breathily, she rolls her head to once again look up at the sky.

“What appeals to you about them?”

You mirror her and lie on your back once again, shrugging after a few moments of scrutiny.

“They’re so...significant.”

She glances at you sheepishly, looking away the second you meet her gaze. “Forgive me when I ask what you mean.”

You smile sadly at her.

“They will always be there. Will always burn.”

You sigh as you trace patterns through them in your mind. “If there are so many of them, and they will all continue on, then...maybe the life I choose to live will not matter in the end because...they are vast and infinite and I am...small enough that maybe my transgressions will vanish in their eyes.”

She is silent for a moment.

She cannot question why you feel that way. She knows you like she knows herself, and you can see in the way her eyes gloss over that she feels it too.

“That,” she says quietly, after a long time of working her jaw, “is far too much guilt for one woman to shoulder.”

Your laugh sounds like a tired scoff. “I’ve got a lifetime ahead to shoulder more.”

She swallows, clenching her teeth once before looking over at you. “Would you share it if you could?”

It’s not even a question in your mind, despite how  _ selfish _ the answer is.

“Yes,” you whisper.

You watch her mull the answer over in her head, her eyes scanning the stars as if they are her cheat sheet. Slowly, she sits up, and you stay where you are, head by her knee staring up at her pensive and conflicted face.

The solemnness in the air is weighing a little too heavy on your chest. Hopefully the mood will lighten soon.

She digs around in her pocket for a moment, producing what looks like a rudimentary necklace. She turns it over in her hands a few times, and you can see in the light of the stars that it is in the shape of a small anchor attached to a thin strip of brown leather.

“I had it made at a blacksmith from some of his scrap metal,” she says by way of explanation.

“It’s for you to remember me by.”

You laugh despite how strange her voice sounds. “It’s very hard to forget you when you’re lying so close, darling.” You walk your fingers playfully up her leg, and for the first time, she does not respond positively. Instead, she frowns something of genuine distress.

“To remember  _ us _ by,” she tries amending, though it does not sound much different to you.

You stop your hand mid-thigh and she doesn’t even notice. Quickly, you pull your hand away, propping yourself up on your elbow.

“Is something the matter?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

She shakes her head softly, not even looking at you but at the necklace instead. She just stares at it, picking at the leather’s edges. “I don’t have ties,” she says slowly. 

Hesitantly, she looks up at you for a moment, assessing you before looking back down. “And judging by how easily you chose to travel with me, you don’t either.”

She swallows and shoves the necklace into your unsuspecting hands. “Anchors...ground. What if...what if you were mine and...I was yours? Could we maybe...shoulder what we shouldn’t have to...together?”

The weight of what she’s trying to say is too much. It constricts your throat as you look down at the rough shape of the metal. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

This was just sex and it was just  _ fun _ and you could be  _ yourself _ and she was probably the only human who wouldn’t ever care that you’re a murderer (among other things). 

She was your ticket away. That was it.

So then why is your heart fluttering in sudden nervous anxiety?

Her fingers on your knee bring you back to her, and she is looking at you nervously, worrying her lip between her teeth and searching your eyes. A million jokes come to mind, the main one being  _ “you, bound by something? pffft”  _ but something in your head says  _ no _ and something in your chest says  _ protect her _ . 

( _ are you growing attached? _ )

Slowly, you smile softly, handing it back to her. For a moment there is a flash of panic in her eyes. You cup your hands around hers.

“Don’t offer a lady jewelry unless you’re willing to put it on her.”

Relief floods her eyes, and a breathy laugh escapes her. “Oh,” she says, and immediately you can hear her teasing. ( _ good _ ) “ _ Now _ , you want to be treated like a lady?”

“If you don’t wish to, then return it,” you quip back, removing your hand from hers to upturn your palm in expectation.

She rolls her eyes and pushes herself to a seated position. “Turn around.”

You bite your lip and sit up, leaning in closer to her for a few seconds, glancing down at her lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her heart rate kicks up, and you grin to yourself as soon as your back is turned.

She drapes it around your neck with steady, gentle fingers, tying a simple knot in the back. Stroking your neck in indication she is finished, you turn back around, raising yourself up on your knees to meet her in a hard kiss. 

You thread your fingers in her hair and use it to pull her closer in a slow and deliberate kiss. She presses closer, exhales rough between each kiss until she forces space between you.

“What are you doing?”

You lean in slowly, thrilling at how her lips part in anticipation, chin tilting to fit you closer. “Thanking you.”

You kiss her lips once before trailing them gently along her jaw, pushing her down onto her back as you go. She tilts her head away to give you room and you take it, nipping down along her neck, finding your spot that just tastes so sweet and  _ her _ . You bite it, and her hips respond.

You lick the spot to soothe it, biting harder and shifting closer,preparing for just a taste, but she makes a warning sound. You immediately pull back. She looks up at you and for the first time, you see hesitancy.

( _ oh no this is it _ )

She searches for the right words, opening and closing her mouth a few times before deciding on a somewhat vague sentence.

“The crew think it something of a manipulation spell.”

And even though she does not reference the biting, you know that’s what she means. Regretfully they’re not far off, and your question is spilling from your lips before you can stop it. 

“What do  _ you  _ think?”

She exhales a shaky sigh, and the slight push of her hips up against yours tells you  _ not now  _ but she manages an answer. “Have I had any quarrels with it thus far?”

You roll your eyes and press between her legs a little harder. She presses her lips together and closes her eyes tightly as she rolls her hips once before regaining some composure. 

“That’s not what I asked, darling,” you dip your head down to whisper in her ear.

She cups the back of your skull to keep you there. “Pain is pain, dear,” she whispers back, “we both have our vices.” She nips hard at the shell of your ear and you shudder despite yourself. “You and I both know you’re no siren. You could not sing if it would save your pretty little life.”

You choke on a laugh as you pull back, and she does too, stretching up to kiss your lips for just a moment. She pulls back enough to look at you, tipping her head to the side. “Now may we continue or must you interrogate me some more?”

You roll your eyes and push her shoulders back until they connect with the floor. “Not yet, I have but one more question.”

“Alright,” she sighs, relaxing back onto the floor.

“May I still…?” You blank on the right word to use, your hand circling in the air to try helping you fill the gap, but nothing comes. You don’t want to say feed, for while she does not mind, she does not quite understand the truth of it. But bite doesn’t suffice either.

She nods despite your trail off. “Keep it hidden,” is all she murmurs, and it is enough of a yes for you to continue, grinning and leaning down for another kiss before trailing kisses down her torso, tugging at the fastenings of her trousers.

She helps you kick them off with a laugh and a ruffle of your hair, and you nuzzle against her thigh, grinning with her. You kiss the inside of her knee, dragging your lips teasingly upward and placing another kiss against her thigh.

You nip the spot once, and she gasps a quiet “ _ oh _ ”, arching her back in a pleading stretch before relaxing down again.

You bite higher, harder, and the next sound out of her mouth is louder, more encouraging. You can feel the blood pumping harder in her veins now, more persistent and excited, and gently, you sink your teeth into the inside of her thigh.

God, it is even sweeter than her neck. More importantly, why hadn’t you thought of this earlier?

...

The evening air blows crisp through the open porthole, and you inhale deeply. It smells like spring and salt, and you cannot help but smile a little to yourself. You like how easily time passes here.

You pull your hair up into a loose bun, stealing one of her shirts and a pair of breeches to match. You find your boots tucked into the corner, and you swipe your half-read book from the desk before exiting onto the main deck.

Lazily, you flip through the pages until you find the one you had left off on, strolling slowly toward the ship railing. It’s an English book on astronomy, and while a few of the more specific words are outside your vocabulary, you’ve enjoyed what you’ve learned. It’s not your usual philosophy, but it’s been enough thus far to occupy your mind.

You climb up onto the main mast platform without taking your eyes from a rather complex diagram on the page, gripping the mast with your free hand and circling it in slow and distracted steps.

You glance up at the shore. In the distance, you can see her crew, rowing to shore to begin their usual pillaging. Or maybe this was a pirate hub. You couldn’t quite keep them all straight.

She is hunched over the railing, gaze fixed on the port. She watches wistfully and you see her sigh. 

“You banned from land?” you tease from your perch on the central mast.

She looks back at you.

“If I was, do you think I would abide it?”

You grin. “I suppose not.”

She surveys you and frowns. “Get down before you fall.”

You scrunch your nose. 

“I take orders from no man.”

She gasps, playful warning in her eyes. “I like a challenge.”

You laugh lightly as she dashes over, swinging easily around the mast and hopping up onto the main boom protruding laterally from it. Instead of following, she watches with a smirk. You extend your arms out to aid your balance as you walk slowly along the beam, swaying every once in awhile.

“You playing pirate?”

You smirk down at her. “I am  _ much _ more graceful than any pirate.”

She smirks back at you, laughter in her eyes as she saunters toward the rear of the ship. “Maybe,” she admits, “but maybe not as graceful as I am.”

“ _ Really _ ?” you tease. “And what makes you say that?”

She shrugs coyly, running her fingers daintily along a spoke of the ship’s wheel. It turns the wheel a millimeter and the beam you are standing on moves an inch.

She grins. “Because it seems  _ you _ have gotten yourself in quite the precarious position.” She wraps her fingers more definitively around the spoke, threat in her eyes.

“You wouldn’t,” you call.

The glint in her eyes says she would, and with only a split second warning, she cranks the wheel. Your laugh is shrill and surprised as the beam jerks to the right beneath you. Bending your knees, you push off from it, grabbing the nearest rope and swinging toward her.

This time  _ she _ shrieks as you crash into her, tumbling onto the ground and rolling until you are on top of her. You pull her small dagger from her belt and hold it to her throat, smiling smugly at your victory.

“That was…” she trails off, slightly breathless.

You drag the flat part of the dagger down her neck, raising your eyebrows expectantly. 

“Appealing to say the least.”

You laugh, dropping the dagger and helping her sit up, effectively keeping yourself positioned in her lap. “I was going for a more... _ legitimate pirate _ appearance, but I suppose appealing will do,” you flash an open mouthed smile down at her, and she stretches up to kiss you once.

“Fine. You are an honorary pirate, mi’lady. Satisfied?”

You shake your head. “I will only be satisfied if you do as you wish and follow your crew to land. You needn’t stay here with me.”

Her smile is small and sad. “What if that  _ is _ what I want?”

Your heart stutters, and you drag your hand down the flat part of her chest. “I’d say I’m a lucky woman.”

She nods in agreement. “The luckiest I’ve ever met.”

There is something deeper hidden beneath her flirtatious banter. 

( _ and beneath yours _ )

...

You rouse from sleep when she nudges you. “A storm is coming,” she whispers into your hair, her lips lingering against your hairline. “I must see to the deck.”

You hum scratchily, untangling yourself and your heavy limbs from her and slipping from the hammock to allow her room to do the same.

You can smell that she is right. The air is thick, full of moisture and a mixture of salt and spring. Everything is muggy; it is hard to breathe, and you can feel the agitated waves pounding against the ship. 

You’re impressed. You thought the signs too subtle for a mortal.

“May I join?” you ask as you help her into her belt.

She frowns. “Of all times to request, Carmilla, it’s now you choose to witness daylight?” She sighs. “You’ll soak through. I cannot have you sick now, dear.” It sounds dismissive at first, as if she believes you incapable and weak, but as she continues you find genuine care mixed in. 

You’re not sure which is worse _. _

“You have spare garments, do you not? I can wear those. Change to mine again once we return inside.”

She shrugs her coat onto her shoulders. “This is one of those times when my answer will not change the outcome, correct?”

“So very sharp,” you murmur fondly as you cross the cabin to her, placing her Captain’s hat atop her head and lingering against her long enough to steal a single kiss.

“I’ll meet you out there.” She smiles tiredly.

You close the door behind her and dress hastily. The rain starts to beat against the windows, relentless and steady, and for a moment you lose yourself. You watch the drops drip down the glass and you cannot look away.

Though you are still inside, you swear you can feel them on your skin. You blink and the feeling disappears. Shivering, you cross your arms to rub your hands over your shoulders and down your arms. You keep rubbing because your skin is dry and you can’t believe it. It felt so  _ real _ .

Sighing, you run your hands over your face only to find your cheeks damp.

You frown down at your shining fingertips. Automatically, you lift them up to swipe under your eyes again.

Why were you crying?

You do not recognize the unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it fades before you can. 

You roll your shoulders, calming  yourself, and step out into the pouring rain.

It is pure chaos outside. Men are running in all directions, shouting and slipping, barely able to see through the rain crashing down around them. You wonder how people aren’t being crushed by the persistence of the storm .

“ _ Put your back into it _ ,” she shouts above the noise. “ _ We rip our sails, we’re dead, you hear?” _

A group of men to your left groan, pulling the rope to the sails harder. The canvas is  fighting them. Their feet skid along the slick wood, losing two inches for every one they gain.

The ship tips with a hard jerk to the left, and you run to grab the end of the rope as two of the men lose their footing. Your muscles scream as you hold it in place, bracing until the men gather themselves together to pull again.

You haven’t  _ properly  _ eaten in weeks and you can feel the force of each gust of wind deep in your muscles. You lean back against the force, bending your knees and pulling. It moves an inch and it’s enough to give the crew some kind of hope. They count  a rhythm, straining their voices to be heard over the pounding rain, and you pull in time with all of them.

Squinting up, you can just see the sail slowly folding up through the sheets of water falling from the heavens.

A few more pulls and you know it will be secure, so you let go and slip away before anyone can notice your assistance.

You catch sight of her at the helm, she looks like she was meant for this very moment. Her knuckles are white as she grips the wheel, leaning into every slight turn she has to make with her whole body, but her grin is huge. Unwavering.

Thunder claps and she tips her head back, laughing joyously and without abandon.

A larger wave crashes on the starboard side, pushing the ship to an angle. Below you, barrels start to roll, more men lose their footing as the angle steepens. She muscles the wheel against it, pushing first with her arms and shoulders before stepping into it with planted feet and the strength of her whole body.

Slowly the ship levels, and her smile only grows. 

“Fight with me all you want!” she shouts up to the sky.

You can’t help but laugh.

Stubborn girl.

You’re about to approach her when another wave knocks the boat. You lose your balance, unable to grab anything for support as you tumble to the ground, a surprised yell escaping you.

The boat continues to sway and you start slipping toward the railing of the port side.

Your hands scramble to find a hold as you’re pulled closer by gravity. Sure, this is not your worst fate. You can survive the fall. And the cold water. And probably even water in your lungs, though would prefer not to test that. 

However, she doesn’t know this.

You hear her distantly shouting orders, but all you can think about is how quickly the ship’s railing is approaching you, and how  _ very _ easily you could slip between the slats. You dig your nails into the wooden floor, and they sink in at least a centimeter, but you just keep sliding, gouging out lines in the floorboards as you go.

Suddenly you are swept up into the arms of one ( _ two? _ ) of the crew and dragged toward the higher part of the ship.

She releases the wheel and it spins violently, whirring so hard you fear she’ll break her hand to catch it. The ship creaks in protest as it spins the other way, leveling itself.

_ Take the wheel _ , you think you hear her say.

Your own heart is pounding too hard in your chest for you to hear anything. Your veins feel like fire as adrenaline courses through them. You can feel the hunger associated with it too.

“Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

All you can see is red and all you can feel is  _ her  _ heartbeat now, pounding in your head. It’s so enticing.

_ Just take her already,  _ your monstrous mind whispers.  _ You know how good she tastes _ .

Your fangs brush against the inside of your lip and it’s enough to remind you to  _ leave. _

“ _ Go away _ ,” you shout, clambering to your feet and stumbling backward, hands held up protectively in front of you.

“Hey,” she says softly, reaching out despite your warnings.

Her fingers brush against your hand and it feels like something is splintering inside you. You stagger, your knees buckling as the world begins rushing away from you. “Stop-”

She takes the opportunity to pull you into her arms and cradle you like you are fragile. You allow her to, even though that is far from the truth. 

“You’re in shock,” she mumbles as she sheds her coat and wraps it around you.

Lightning flashes and for a moment all you can see is stainglass windows and blonde hair, hugged knees and damp towels. For a moment you’re caught in the vision. You can feel the rain and hear the wind but it feels like you’re protected from it, in a room just watching.  Something feels  _ off _ .

_ ‘Mircalla, why does my heart feel like the carnage of a storm?’ _

No, no, you watched her die. What is happening? Why can you hear her now?

Your reckless captain hugs you closer and all you can smell is the girl whose grave you left behind at Castle Karnstein.

You’re sobbing before you can stop yourself, clutching at her vest to pull her closer to you. You feel reconnected, like you’d never lost her but you  _ did _ and she is  _ gone _ even if something deep inside of you is  _ screaming _ at you she’s still right here.

Forcing your eyes open, you expect to see her innocent face, but all you see is raven hair and worried eyes. The boat tips and you remember where you are.

“Oh  _ God _ ,” you breathe. You feel nauseated. What in the  _ flying _ hell was that?

Were you losing your mind?

Wiping furiously at your eyes, you push yourself to your feet and away from her, the coat falling in a heap at your feet. “I…” You don’t know what to say as she looks at you with such confusion -  _ I know you _ , your mind screams - so instead you stumble back to her cabin to let the storm pass, humiliated and exhausted. 

You’ve calmed down by the time she enters a good while later. She, however, has not forgotten.

She stands in the middle of the room, and you can feel the uncertainty coming off her in waves as she lingers just a little too far away from you.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, closing your eyes and patting the mattress beside you.

She does not move.

You open your eyes after a few moments. Her brows are knitted in something between confusion and concern, the corners of her mouth twitching down every so often. Is she trying not to cry?

You sit up and throw off the covers, climbing from the bed to walk slowly toward her. You stop in front of her, leaving a generous distance between you, and her frown only deepens.

Cautiously, you reach up to remove her hat. She lets you.

You brush your fingers through her hair, pushing the matted mess away from her face. She closes her eyes and leans into your hand as you cup her cheek. Whatever happened before, it wasn’t a hallucination. Her warmth tangles its way through your nerves before wrapping around your heart.

The loneliness you’ve been fighting off for over twenty years melts into the background.

She’s just... _ her _ though, she’s not... _ yours _ .

You haven’t been through anything with her. You don’t know anything about her. Neither of you are particularly chatty.

Running your fingers down her jaw, she shudders and you falter.

_ Maybe she was yours,  _ your mind suggests, but you ignore it _. _

“Come to bed,” you whisper and she shakes her head.

“Take me there yourself.”

You laugh sadly and nod. “Of course.”

You push the coat off her shoulders, and it lands with a harsh thud on the ground, spraying water on your ankles. You do not even care.

Next you undo the buttons on her vest, along with the buttons of her shirt, but you leave them hanging for a little. You undo her belt and sword. She discards them as if they’re nothing. 

You unlace both her boots and with some help from her you get them off with her stockings and her breeches. The rest is all downhill. She pulls off her shirt and vest desperately before she starts removing your clothing.

You want to kiss her but you aren’t sure how she will react.

She seems so scared.

Cupping her face with both your hands, you rock up onto your toes to kiss her firmly. She catches hold of your back, pressing you against her with flattened palms as her leg slips between yours.

God, you feel so  _ whole, _ so  _ alive _ again, and you wonder if the dead feeling you’ve been harboring has anything to do with being dead at all.

She picks you up and carries you to bed, whispering curses in your ear.

“ _ Don’t ever scare me like that.” _

_ “I thought I lost you _ . _ ” _

The harder she presses you against her, the deeper she possesses you, the more you realize it wasn’t about the breakdown but the slip and fall by the railing.

The bites along your neck feel like warnings and the building tide in your abdomen is your incentive and for now that’s just what you need.

You keep your fingers knotted in her hair at the base of her skull, face buried in the same curls by her ear to muffle the sound of your encouraging moans.

Never has it felt this good.

_ (never have you let her touch you so _ )

That is a lie, though. A blatant lie you  _ know _ because you have always given her this much. You had even given up the only thing that’s kept you feeling in control your entire undead life once by letting her tie you up, but this is different.

This is a different level of vulnerability no one like you should ever give. Like  _ neither _ of you should ever have to give.

And yet here you were, desperate hands and desperate breaths, pretending you’re not crying and pretending she’s not shuddering in something other than pleasure because that would be  _ insane _ . 

There’s a reason you are the way you are and a  _ reason _ she is the way she is and carving yourselves out until that  _ reason _ is all that’s left is a  _ bad idea _ . A single exposed nerve at the mercy of each other’s care and it is that you are bad and so is she. You are manipulative and so is she. She uses you and you use her and both of you are  _ selfish _ and  _ angry _ women with fatality in your hands and black in your hearts and in its purest form, it is admittance that despite all of that you have found a tiny part of you that  _ loves _ . Loves  _ her _ . And there is a tiny part of her that will always be soft for you. Reckless for you. 

Maybe that is exactly why you don’t stop, why you kiss her harder and open yourself a little more.

She takes advantage of it. ( _ not of  _ you _ ) _

Your grip in her hair is unrelenting and the pleasure in your abdomen is building until your body is shaking and it snaps white hot down your legs and up your spine and you lose control of yourself for a second or ten or twenty.

You are so high and the fall has never been so gradual.

She breathes hot and slow against your neck as the spasms of your hips begin to fade. Your head is fuzzy as she kisses your skin over and over, silence looming powerful and vague around you.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

If she is who your body tells you she is, then no, you are definitely not.

But what are the chances of that?

…

_ 1718 _

The night is growing old, and you are wrapping up your party, draining the blood from a particularly drunk fellow who you knew would not be missed.

You drop the man to the floor, stomach full, almost drunk with energy. Your fingertips tingle with life in a way you’d never felt before.

Intoxicated, you’d even call it. 

You have always liked going to taverns with her. She was always busy with the crew and you could always gorge yourself in preparation for a longer journey.

You wipe your mouth with your sleeve, carelessly throwing the curtain aside to re-enter the bar. 

Seeing her across the room makes your heart jump, and you cannot help but run to her clumsily. You drop yourself in her lap with a few thoughtless  giggles, arms slinging around her shoulders to steady yourself. Your mind is muddled, fuzzy somehow, and when she tilts her chin up to smile at you, everything is drowned out by the upward turn of her lips.

It’s so compelling. You bend down to kiss her hard, inhibitions lost somewhere during the night. She kisses back slowly,  _ deeply _ , hand finding claim on the small of your back to hold you in place. It’s dizzying ( _ or maybe that’s the blood _ ) and you exhale sharply against her lips, hand pressing firmly to her chest to ground yourself.

“Carmilla?” she asks worriedly, just loud enough to be heard above the chatter. “Are you well?”

“Never better,” you answer with a breathy laugh. You lean down for another kiss when another captain approaches, long hair, long beard, hands on his hips.

“Come now, lad, you’ve had all night with her. Can’t go hoarding the pretty one all to yourself.” He grabs your arm and pulls you from her lap. You shrug from his grip, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are focused on her.

You frown, but she frowns deeper. “You best keep your hands to yourself, Captain,” she says evenly. “I don’t take kindly to thieves handling my things.”

Though you know she does not mean it, something of anger sparks in your stomach at being called an object.

“Whatcha gonna do about it, boy?” He grabs your arm again, and she stands as quickly as you pull away, her sword already drawn.

He cracks a smile, slowly drawing his too, shoving you hard enough that you stumble backward and out of the way. No one seems to even blink when they start dueling in the middle of the room. Waitresses duck around them with trays, and drunks carry on their loud conversations.

Your senses are all overwhelmed; everything blurring together in this deafening,  _ unavoidable _ hum, cut only by the splitting metal on metal crashes with each of their swings. You close your eyes to try and gather yourself, but each clang sparks more fear into you that the next one will sink into  _ her _ instead of her sword.

“Stop,” you shout, opening your eyes and taking a step toward them.

Neither break their stride.

“I said  _ stop _ ,” you growl, stepping between them. Of course their reflexes are not fast enough to anticipate you, and you must block both their attacks, one hand grabbing the hand wielding his sword, the other catching her blade.

The cut on your hand barely even registers.

The room is suddenly silent, but you are drunk and you are  _ angry _ and the bloodrush to your head is nothing short of demanding that you put him in his place.

“I already have a Captain,” you say firmly, though the room feels like it’s about to spin. “Leave now, and you can live.”

He looks at his hand where you have stopped him, and held him still. He looks furious. “If I cared about the lady’s opinion, I would’ve asked her.”

_ God _ ,  _ arrogance was so tactless. _

You release his hand, and almost instantly he winds up for another attack on the both of you. Still holding her sword, you place a well-timed kick to his hand, knocking the sword loose in his follow-through swing.

He stumbles a few steps back, surprised, before redoubling his efforts and lunging.

You catch his throat in your hand and squeeze. His forward movement stops, a choking sound spilling from his mouth. His hands claw at your grip, but you don’t release him. Instead, you release her sword and turn your body fully toward his, using the new leverage to lift him off the ground.

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” he sputters with what little air he has left.

You smirk at him. “Me too.”

You slowly squeeze tighter, and your skin begins to tingle where you hold him. You can  _ feel _ the energy collecting in your muscles, your whole body suddenly  _ rejuvenated _ , but you do not have the patience to kill him like Mother had taught you. Your blood frenzied brain is impatient. In a quick motion, you clench your fist. The bones under your hand crunch so  _ easily _ , and he goes limp.

You drop his body to the floor with a very prominent thud, and when you glance around, all eyes are on you. Mouths open, chatter still completely silent.

You clench both your fists, testing the power you can still feel tingling in them, but your left one stings sharply.

Frowning, you hold your hand up to your face. The cut is big, spanning the length of your palm, but it isn’t deep (you think). You lick it once to clean the blood from it, before looking around to find her once again. She’s staring at you. Hard. Like cogs turning as she looks and  _ thinks _ . 

You smile at her hesitantly. She does not return it.

In fact, she looks angry. When you approach, she takes hold of your elbow, guiding you toward the door. “Come,” she says roughly, and you follow, slightly confused.

She drags you outside, and you’re both a little drunk, both a little heated. She storms toward the beach.

“What in the  _ hell _ was that?” she shouts as she continues walking.

You yank your wrist from her grip easily.

“He challenged you.”

You don’t understand what’s wrong.

“Correct!” she exclaims, waving her hand as she stops and whirls on you. “Challenged  _ me _ !”

You roll your eyes. “He would have killed you.”

“I can fight my own battles,” she growls, and you don’t mean to but you scoff.

Her eyes flare.

She throws herself at you, fingers curling around your neck. She holds you there and you choke. Sure, you don’t have to breathe, but it certainly isn’t a  _ pleasant  _ feeling _. _

You wedge your fingers under hers and easily rip her away. You can feel her fingers cracking in your hand as you squeeze them, and she lets out a strangled protest, her other hand trying desperately to free its partner from you. You squeeze harder and pull down, and she falls to her knees to minimize the pain, her height working against her now.

No matter how hard she tugs back against you though, you don’t let go. She had no right to touch you. No right to be  _ mad _ when all you did was  _ save _ her. 

( _ why can’t she see you did it because you loved her _ )

And when she realizes that she  _ cannot _ free herself, you think maybe you catch a glisten of tears in her eyes before she blinks them away and looks directly at you. “Please,” she says softly, “let go.”

If her honor had not been bruised before, it was now. You can see the defeat in her eyes, the usual spark of fight now grayed as she begs you. 

“What else is there for you to take?” she whispers, head bowing as she goes slack in your grip.

You balk. 

( _ what? _ )

“I’ve taken nothing—”

“You’ve taken  _ everything _ ,” she shouts almost immediately, snapping her head back up to look you in the eye. “Didn’t you see them? How they  _ looked _ at me? No one in a thousand miles will sail with me because  _ you _ had to fight my battles. They think me  _ weak _ . A  _ coward _ . Who would take someone like that as their leader?”

You’re stunned, and in a flash of anger, she tears herself free, only to lash out on you with a shove to your chest. You stumble back and she advances with even more certainty. “ _ I have no crew, _ ” she shouts, shoving you back once more. “No power.” You think maybe she will shove you again, but this time she just stops a breath away from you, her index finger falling to rest on your collarbone. “I am  _ right _ back where I started because of  _ you _ . Now I’ll be lucky if someone allows me to work  _ for  _ them just to get back home.”

She hangs her head, finger dragging down your chest until her arm hangs loosely at her side, her shoulders dropping as she sighs. “They were right,” she says weakly.

You want to ask her what, but you cannot find your voice. Every word against you feels like a punch in the ribs and it's left you breathless.

“Love made me blind.”

“Darling…” You exhale harshly.

She had never mentioned love before. Your eyes start to water, and something in them must be pulling at her for she shakes her head hard at a question you hadn’t asked yet.

“Don’t do that,” she says firmly, but you reach out anyway, taking her face in your hands and for a single healing second she lets you. And for a single stolen moment, she is yours again. She holds her breath like she wants to fight it even as she’s leaning into you, but something  _ snaps _ and she pulls away from the second you were never supposed to have, pushing you away.

“ _ No _ .” 

“Please…” It’s your turn to beg. “I didn't know...I didn’t mean to-”

Her frown is broken, quivering even as she forces it to be stronger. “Apologies won’t get my life back.”

Instinctively you reach for her again, and this time she immediately bats your hands away, taking a step back. “Who-whatever you are, just  _ stay away _ .”

She waves dismissively at you, as though the motion in the air would be enough to knock you back, but it is her who stumbles backwards.

There’s nothing to say as you watch her leave. Everything just feels blank. Numb.

Your knees feel like they will give out on you if you do not relieve them, so you unsteadily drop to the sand, hugging your knees to your chest with one hand, the other clutching tight to the anchor hanging heavy around your neck. You don’t move for hours, trying to process everything. The sun sets beyond the water, the only light from torches on various docked vessels. Eventually, the drunken buzz wears off, the cold wind easily sobering you up.

You watch the tide slowly rise toward you, and you wonder if maybe the ocean could just take you away.

It would certainly feel better than this.

“... _ Mircalla? _ ”

You look in the direction of the voice, startled to see Mattie trudging toward you. Behind her is a gang of Mother’s henchmen, all with torches and bags. It almost looks like a search party.

Scrambling to your feet, you take a few steps back.

Were they here to collect you or kill you?

“What in the hell  _ happened _ ?” she asks as she closes in on you. She looks genuinely worried, and you feel an overwhelming urge to explain everything with exactly  _ no _ vocabulary to properly phrase it.

“I just- I needed to get away,” you mumble incoherently. “I needed a break and I just-”

“Mircalla, look at me,” she says sternly.

You swallow, clenching your teeth to pull back the almost tears as you tip your head slowly up.

She frowns immediately, and her voice is quieter than usual. “What happened to you?”

You know a lie would suffice. You know  _ anything _ would suffice, but nothing feels right except the truth and that is exactly what comes with your released breath.

“Sh-she left me,” your voice breaks despite your efforts, and you know how  _ vague _ and stupid that sounds but it’s all you’ve got left. Your jaw trembles, and you close your eyes to fight the onslaught of tears, but they leak out anyway.

Mattie understands almost instant. She steps forward and collects your face in her hands. “You didn’t go and fall in love without me, did you?”

You choke back a sob and it shakes your body. It hits Mattie hard, for she is instantly all fangs and anger.

“Where is she? I will rip her still beating heart—”

She turns to go, but you grab her elbows to keep her from letting you go, tiredly closing your eyes and shaking your head. “Mattie, no…” you exhale. It rings of vague disappointment. “She’s gone. Back at sea. Just…”

_ Let it go _ .

She scoffs. “You think a little water can stop me?”

You’re trying to shove apathy down your own throat, trying to swallow it down as if that will make it numb the rest of you. Instead, you choke on an actual sob, and you catch the shock in Mattie’s eyes.

“Just…” 

She looks at you completely lost as you once again choke on the sentence with a wave of tears building in your eyes, her flat palms against your arms in an open question. And you’re too busy drowning in whatever  _ this _ is to even begin to explain to her what you need. 

“Kitty?”

This time she grips your arms tightly, jerking you just enough for your gaze to immediately snap to hers. She looks back and forth between your eyes, searching, and you blink away the tears clouding up your vision. 

You don’t think she’s ever seen you this destroyed over something so useless in her eyes. She tucks you under her arm, and you encircle her waist automatically. “Let’s get you home,” she murmurs, hugging you closer.

“I don’t believe I’m welcome,” you admit, hanging your head at the mere thought of facing Mother again.

Mattie tuts. “Don’t be foolish. She hasn’t stopped looking for you since you left.”

“So she can reclaim my head herself, no doubt,” you mutter.

“I believe what I saw in her is called ‘worry’ to the mortals of this earth.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “Worried that I put her precious  _ Sacrifice _ in jeopardy.”

Mattie frowns, but does not argue further. 

She cons an innkeeper into housing you for a night, and the following morning she makes a cargo ship take you on as passengers. No threats. No force. Sometimes you aren’t sure you want to know the extent of Mattie’s power.

Or how often she’s used it on you. (you naively hope never)

…

The six week journey feels like a day compared to the years you’d spent on  _ the Devil’s Compass _ . Or maybe it goes by faster because of the complete numbness overwhelming your every sense. To the point where every day felt exactly the same because you  _ felt _ exactly the same every waking moment.

Dead.

Even after you hit land, you cannot even find your heartbeat in your chest anymore. The muscles in your cheeks feel stuck in an apathetic frown, eyes stuck straight ahead as Mattie guides you toward the grotesquely picturesque hills of Styria. 

You know you should be more scared. You  _ are  _ walking to your execution.

But you can’t seem to muster up so much as a worry as you deboard the carriage.

Mattie takes you right up the steps to Mother’s front door and down the main drawing room. 

You see Mother before she sees you. Her back is turned as she pours over some book on her desk, her fingernail scraping down the page as she searches for a specific section. As Mattie guides you closer, however, your footsteps become louder, and she lifts her head, verifying the sound before turning your way. 

Her eyes lock with yours immediately, and it strikes you frozen where you stand. Your body tenses and you tug once against Mattie’s hold.

( _ you’re not ready to die you’re not ready to die not ready not) _

She steps closer and you jerk again in Mattie’s hands. Mother clicks her tongue, furrowing her brows as she reaches for you. “What has the world done to you?” she whispers, stepping close enough to brush her fingers along your jaw until she fully cups your face.

Everything that happened to you is resurfacing. All the pain, all the loss and rejection. Falling in love. The  _ anger _ you possessed when you fled this place after the accident.

She smiles at you but all you see is the way she looked at you in the chapel three years ago.

In mocking amusement.

_ Did you really think she could ever  _ love  _ you? _

But this time you are not thinking about that poor village girl. God, no. Your chest tightens as you remember the beach. The betrayal in her eyes. The  _ hate. _

Your eyes sting and your jaw begins to tremble.

_ (she had warned you. she had been right all along you would always be alone) _

“I should have listened to you,” you finally whisper, closing your eyes and bowing your head, tears spilling onto your cheeks.

“Oh darling.”

Mother hugs you like nothing ill had happened between the two of you, stroking your hair. All the bottled up regret comes pouring out of you as she hugs you closer, and you just stand there and sob into her chest.

“That’s just the way the world works, dearest,” she whispers, fingers twisting in your hair to pull you closer. “No one understands you better than I do.”

She strokes your hair over and over, calm slowly settling in your chest again. “Your heart will only be safe with me.”

Maybe she was right.

...

“Have you ever...met someone twice?” you ask as you move your knight, leaving your finger on the top of it for an extra second before releasing it.

She shrugs lightly as she inspects the board, index finger tapping against her jaw. “Many people change given enough time.”

You roll your eyes and without hesitating, she tuts disapprovingly. “Don’t test me, darling.”

You snort. “It’s not my fault! Why does everyone assume I speak metaphors?”

She raises her eyebrows. “You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yourself.”

“Just because I enjoy the arts doesn’t mean I myself am an artist.”

She smirks as she looks back at the board. 

“You are quite an artist of the heart.” The words sound partly sincere, but the knowing smirk still lingering at the corners of her mouth makes you question the authenticity of the compliment. You want to ask, but you also want your  _ own _ answers.

“I was being serious,” you redirect, watching her reach for a piece. “I mean someone who isn’t...them, but...is?”

_ You have such a way with words, Mircalla _ , you expect her to joke, but her hand hesitates for a moment, fingers almost recoiling away before she continues as though she hadn’t flinched. You search her face but it is unreadable. Completely focused on the game as she moves her queen ( _ surprise _ ) forward to take your bishop. She does not take her finger off the piece as she surveys the rest of the pieces. 

After a long moment, she speaks, seemingly uninterested. "Why, darling? Has it happened to you?"

Something in her voice sounds off, as if she is leading you. Caution jolts in your stomach, and all you can think is  _ protect her from Mother _ . 

"Not...really. I was...in a crowd," you lie through your teeth. "Someone brushed me and it felt...familiar."

She looks at the board over her nose, slowly releasing her piece and collecting yours as collateral. "When you live as long as is, many things feel like the have happened before."

" _ Pas déjà vu _ ," you snap. She glares at you, and you correct your tone. "I'm not a child. I know the difference between a memory and a feeling."

She frowns at you for a moment, and you stare back for as long as you can before you lose your courage and drop your gaze to the board.

You reach for pieces without really thinking. Just stalling. Eventually she sighs. "It's not unheard of," she allows.

You raise your eyebrows in acknowledgement but keep your focus down. You're tired of her games.

"Souls can...recycle."

"They can?"

She looks displeased. "Yes. Of course. Except in soul sacrifices. Or if it gets devoured."

"Was mine?"

She turns her head, looking at you hard, a ghost of a frown narrowing her eyebrows. "You're complicated, dear."

"How?"

"I found you breathing. Barely. But Death works...strangely."

She brushes her fingers along the back of your hand affectionately. "Do you remember how you got to that castle I found you in?"

You shake your head.

She tips her head. "And yet you remember being human. I know as much."

"So...?"

It sparks annoyance in her eyes. You have reached your limit. "So. I don't quite know what you are."

You swallow, suddenly uncomfortable under her stare.

"Now," she says dismissively, "are you going to move or shall I call a time penalty?"

You try disguising your frown as concentration at the board, throwing your bishop to the wolves in the hopes it will save you.

It doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it, and of course any feedback is appreciated! You can find me at faithlethalhane.tumblr.com as well if you have any questions, and know that from now on I will probably post on a bi-weekly schedule. thanks for all the love and support thus far!!


	5. Split in Half (part 3.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on is hard with an anchor around your neck. But you really are a glutton for punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a LONG while, so you might need a refresher…For that, I apologize. But without further ado, here it is! Part three! It’s a lot of character progression and plot, so I apologize for the lack of hollstein-y goodness, but I promise there is some good stuff lined up for the future!

_ 1718 _

It takes you a long time to get over her.

For months, you considered searching for her. You planned all the places you would look, but when it came time to bring your plans to fruition, you could never follow through. 

Everything was still too fresh. Too raw. Too confusing.

On the one hand, you were angry. She kicked you to the curb for quite literally saving her life. Sure, maybe you crossed some lines, but you still protected her. Why couldn’t she see that, at least?

You tried to convince yourself that she was ungrateful. That she wasn’t worth your time. 

( _ she was, of course she was _ )

On the other hand, you were hurt. Hurt and cheated. You  _ yearned _ for her, to have her love you again, just to remember what it felt like. Twice now, you’d met this girl, this beautiful girl with a beautiful soul, and the more you relive it, the more you begin to believe this idea of...soulmates.

You don’t know if that makes you feel better or worse.

You had calculated the possibilities in your head. If she  _ was _ the same person, the same soul,  _ whatever _ , this new girl would had to have been born right after your human love had died. Would it always follow that pattern? How would you know when she died? How would you know when to look for her?

More importantly, would you even  _ want  _ to see her?

You shake your head. It was silly to waste your time pondering about the future when there were plenty of questions that needed answering now. 

What were you to do now? Ignore her existence and just wait for her to run into you again?

Nothing made sense, but with your wounds still open and your heart still broken, all you can do is try to forget. Try to move on.

( _ you can’t bring yourself to remove the reminder hanging heavy around your neck _ ) 

…

1720

Your wounds are no longer fresh. Instead, you feel their muted scars, jagged and imperfect where you tried to cover up all those feelings. Sometimes your mind has mercy on you and you forget. Forget what happened, forget that you’ve lost her, forget that she even exists for but a fleeting moment in the chaos of what is supposed to be normal, everyday life.

You forget, but then you dream of her. Where your waking mind pities you, the night won’t let you escape, shattering your respite and reminding you of what you’ve lost. 

You dream of her, and it’s as if it happened yesterday. As if it is happening all over again. The bitter sea air lingers in your throat even after you wrench yourself back into reality. It cloaks your senses and you don’t sleep for days after the dream has already passed.

You bury your face in your hands, kicking the sheets off your legs to cool the sweat off them.

Night, the unrelenting bitch, digging her heels in as you try clawing your way out.

You curl your fingers in your hair, gripping until pain shoots unmistakably across your scalp. She may be unrelenting but so are you.

A few sleepless nights won’t kill you. You’ve yet to find something that can.

...

_ 1734 _

She creeps up on you.

You thought you had shaken off the dreams. Fourteen years have passed; you thought the memory would have faded by now _.  _ Still, they come back with a vengeance. 

Fiercer. More frequent.  _ Different _ . 

They feel...external and not of your own creation. Not the product of your heartbreak.

Sometimes it happens when you’re awake, and she is all you can see, anger and betrayal personified. Sometimes they’re flashbacks - you close your eyes for a moment and you’re back in your estate, bleeding out and crying. But sometimes you’re immersed in events you’ve never witnessed: the sounds of cannons firing, desperate shouts, the metallic smell of blood and sea salt. 

You tell yourself they’re simple hallucinations, but they feel so real.

You don’t understand why they’re happening. Was it from being far away from her? Was it from  _ leaving _ ?

Was it being so close to the Sacrifice?

You don’t remember what it’s like to close your eyes without seeing her face.

“Mattie,” you whimper, and she is at your side, accepting your blindly grasping hands in hers and squeezing them so hard you actually begin to feel grounded. “It’s her.”

She growls, and it vibrates deep in your chest. “I should have killed that harpie when I had the chance.”

“ _ No _ ,” you hasten. “Mattie, please, I love her.”

“She  _ banished _ you, Kitty cat. Tore your heart clean out.” She scoffs. “She deserves the same fate, if not worse.”

You twist your hand from her grip only to grab the front of her shirt to pull her closer. “Mattie, this is something else. Do you...do you remember what I told you?”

She holds back her laugh for you. “Your preposterous theory of soulmates? The sad rationalist in you projecting meaning into a world that should have none?”

“ _ Matska _ ,” you snap, tightening your grip as the smell of saltwater overpowers you. Your stomach lurches like the room had tilted, but the floor is still flat and nothing slides off tables. “Four years ago, I would have unequivocally agreed with you that it was a pathetic attempt for self-comfort but-” You cringe and squeeze your eyes closed as your stomach rolls in the opposite direction. “-but I cannot say I feel very comforted in my current situation.”

The room pitches violently even as the walls remain still, and you lift your arms up to steady yourself, instinctively releasing her. Mattie frowns at you.

“And what is your current situation, dear?” she asks, her eyes narrowed.

“I seem to be suffering with a small case of seasickn-” You snap your mouth shut as you dry heave, bolting upright.

She eyes you warily. “You... _ do _ look ill.”

You glare at her. Her lips twitch upward before she clears her throat and dons a serious face.

“So, let’s say I believe you. And let’s say you  _ do _ feel like you’re on a ship right now. Has this happened before?”

“More or less,” you answer distractedly, glancing about the room in an attempt to catch it shifting. “I’ve been dreaming of her, no... _ with _ her a lot. Of things that never happened between us.”

She cocks her head and runs a finger down your cheek. “Dreams can construct a lot of things.”

You close your eyes and the distant sound of shouting grows louder. You force yourself back into the room with Mattie, back into  _ reality _ .

You snap your eyes open. “I  _ know _ ,” you say forcefully. “But I feel  _ there _ , Mattie. Please.”

She looks you over pensively.

“I suppose a spiritual connection could come with some sort of psychic link as well. Your...awareness of the situation would make it easier for you to connect with her.” She grins coyly. “All that mystical Sacrifice energy in the air probably amplified it.”

She blinks away the excitement in her eyes, clearing her throat and looking away. “ _ If _ I were to believe you, that is.”

You share her belief that this is madness, but you cannot argue with what you know to be absolutely true. Another swift pitch of the room seals the deal for you, and you barely make it to the washroom before you retch.

“You must have been an awful travelling companion,” she muses from the other room. You frown and stick your head back into the room. You find her smirking at you as she twirls a piece of her hair about her fingers. “I’m not quite sure I understand the attractiveness of a green complexion.”

You groan, rolling your eyes and chucking a towel at her so hard it whistles through the air; she still manages to dodge it with a peal of laughter.

Later in the day, she gifts you a chunk of fresh ginger, peeled and stabbed with a needle to keep it on a leather strap. She slings it about your neck and you wear it begrudgingly, refusing to admit to her that is does seem to help with the nausea. 

…

It gets to the point where you cannot close your eyes for longer than a few moments before you start feeling things, remembering.

You hate being this helpless, this out of control within your own mind. It’s  _ your _ mind.  _ You _ should be directing your thoughts, not simply a passenger along for the ride. Least of all one you can’t seem to escape.

You want to be able to sleep, you want to forget her, but you  _ can’t _ . You can’t when every time you close your eyes you are on the ship, pleading with her between clashing swords to forgive you. It seems that everything is futile. Begging her, begging yourself and your brain, begging a god you’d long given up on. No matter what you do, something just keeps dragging you down father.

You sit in your room, prying your eyes open until they begin to itch and ache to close. You force them still, focusing on a small speck of dirt on the opposing wall for you  _ swear _ she seems to be seated in the chair just out of view. You can see the edge of her coat waving as she shifts minutely.

No. No, it’s just a trick of light. Your peripherals aren’t that reliable anyway. 

( _ god, your eyes are so tired _ )

But if you give in, if you close them, she will  _ definitely  _ be there waiting for you. Maybe there is better than definitely, right? 

( _ wrong, wrong, wrong - this desperate curiosity is about to kill you _ )

“ _ Go away, _ ” you whisper, covering your ears with your hands before grabbing fistfuls of your hair to try stopping yourself from covering your eyes.

“Darling, did you say something?” Mother calls from the other room, and instinctively your eyes follow the sound.

You scream. You saw her in that chair, her hair pulled back and her face older than you remember, tear-stained and red. 

“What the devil-” you hear from the other room, and your attention drifts to the sound of her walking down the hall. 

You glance back at the chair. She is gone. 

Mother finds you perplexed and quiet, unable to pull your gaze from the empty chair. 

She begins to genuinely worry about you.

...

You go four days without sleep or speech, barely even managing to blink, before Mother finally intervenes.

“You must sleep, little one.”

“I don’t need anything. I’m immortal,” you force out through gritted teeth, your eyes aching.

She sighs and presses her lips together in a line. “Your body may be forever, but the mind is fragile, dear. I cannot tell you how many vampires I’ve seen perish from insomnia. Madness comes so much easier to the old.”

You don’t listen. You won’t ask for her help. Still, she does not grow angry with you.

The longer you fight, the further the pain sets into your body. It feels like it has crystallized into your muscles. Days and nights pass slowly, your only concept of time the shadow cast from the window. But the whole time, Mother stays with you. Tender, caring,  _ loving _ . She strokes your hair at night when you cannot sleep, murmurs promises to you of travel and feast.

You spend so long crying into her arms, you begin to find true solace there. You forget why you had even left in the first place.

She sits at your bedside, stroking your hair, kissing your hands. “Please, my glittering girl,” she murmurs into your knuckles. “Let me help you.”

You just cry harder and pull her closer. A small voice inside you screams no, but the rest of you? Oh, the rest is tired. Tired of fighting, tired of distrust. Tired of the sadness.

You are so, so tired.

Despite your gut telling you to resist, you nod against her shoulder, sniveling and defeated. She kisses the top of your head a few times before gently pushing you back onto your mattress. She stays where she is, knelt on the ground, and the softest of smiles pulls at her lips. For once, she seems not manipulative, not cold, but safe and reassuring.

“Close your eyes.”

You forget how to use those muscles; your eyes feel dry and ready to crack despite the tears still freely flowing from them. You are  _ scared _ .

“I can’t,” you admit.

“What are you afraid of?” she says, voice little more than a whisper as she tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

You press your lips together. Even as your body struggles, admitting the root of your fear feels like a weakness that is beneath you..

“Her?” she guesses. Her voice is laced with maternal understanding.

You look away, ashamed, and nod. 

Mother cups your hands once more, squeezing them gently. “She’s just a ghost now,” she promises in hushed tones and solemn eyes. “She hurt you then, but she can’t hurt you now.”

You beg to differ. The girl inside your head, inside your dreams, feels painfully real. On cue, your jaw trembles, and she squeezes your hands again.

“I want nothing but your safety.” Her voice is so calm. “Do you trust me?”

It gives you pause. You know on solid fact that she is a pure kind of evil, the rarest, but she has never hurt you. Threatened it once, but now she treats you...differently. 

She senses your hesitancy and presses her lips to your hand, not a kiss but an anchor, and slowly, so slowly, she smiles. Her eyes are cold and piercing as she holds your gaze. “I won’t leave you,” she murmurs. “I won’t leave you like they always do.” 

You inhale sharply against the sudden tightness pulling in your chest.

“My love for you, dearest, will be eternal.”

She squeezes your hand and heat radiates from her skin to yours. Maybe it’s a trick, but maybe it’s not. Despite yourself, you feel comforted. 

Before you can reconsider, you force your eyes closed. You would almost swear that your eyelids creak as you do, and they sting , but you could cry in relief.

Mother laces her fingers between yours and begins a chant, low and gentle in a language you cannot quite place. You can feel the fight leaving your body, until everything spirals into blackness. You fall into a vacuum of feelings and senses and remain there. For twenty hours, you cannot move. See. Feel. _ Breathe _ . The darkness is just darkness. 

No torturous visions, no haunting past. Just you, floating in an all-encompassing emptiness.

You stay that way until Mother believes you well enough.

It seems, yet again, that you were wrong and Mother was right.

As the effects slowly wear off, color bleeds back into your world and pins and needles tingle through  your legs and arms as feeling flows into them. The rise to the surface is so gradual, so gentle... 

...until it isn’t. 

As the feeling returns to your chest and throat, you feel violently ill. You jerk up, despite the fact that you still cannot see fully formed shapes. All you know is that there is  _ pain _ and it is searing through your spine and ribs, so hot and angry that your stomach churns.

You grip the bed frame until your knuckles feel like they are cracking, but the rolling of your stomach continues until you cannot hold the dry heaves back.

Your stomach lurches and you collapse forward, vomiting onto the floor. 

“Kitty!” Mattie exclaims, running over and draping her arm around your shoulder in comfort. “What did you do?” she spits, looking up at Mother.

The sound is too harsh and new pain crawls up your spine like fire. Grabbing fistfuls of your hair, you press your knuckles against your skull to try dulling the shooting pains.

You cannot see Mother’s face, but you see her cross her arms. “Watch your tone, Matska. This isn’t me.”

Mattie snaps right back. “There are  _ plenty _ of side effects to spells like that and you know it—”

“It wasn’t her,” you mumble weakly, but the mere action of opening your mouth brings the nausea back, and you vomit once more onto the floor. Wiping at the corner of your mouth with your wrist, you grimace before continuing with swallowed pride. “If anything, she helped.”

That does not explain the true cause, though.

Each throb in your head rolls your stomach. Grimacing, you use Mattie’s shoulder to hoist yourself back on your feet. 

“I-I need to get out of here,” you say through gritted teeth, fists clenching as another wave of pain sears its way through your ribs. “I just...need something unfamiliar.” You feel a pressure within these walls that is begging you to be perfect, be  _ well _ and you cannot handle that standard, much less meet it. 

You need an escape. 

You lift your head weakly to meet Mother’s eyes, and she holds your gaze firmly, gauging your sincerity. She nods solemnly after a long moment. 

“I’ll prepare the carriage.”

You feel like she acquiesced too easily, but you do not argue.

Mattie slings your arm over her shoulder and helps you to your room. She releases you, and you grip the edge of the bed for support, cringing as a wave of pain crashes through you before receding quickly, taking a large portion of the residual aching with it. You stuff clothes into your bag, your hands still shaking from the fading pain.

Only as you turn to go do you notice that behind you Mattie is packing too.

“What are you doing?” you ask weakly.

She glances up at you, disinterested and scowling. “Don’t be so thick,” she mutters before focusing on shoving dresses into her bag. 

“I couldn’t impose,” you say, stronger this time. “This is my problem.”

“You are wasting your breath,” she nearly growls, snapping her head up to glare at you. “You will not travel alone.” 

She clenches her jaw, her resolve sound. You know arguing is futile.

Slowly, you nod in understanding, and she almost smiles. 

She takes your bag before you can protest. 

“Can you walk?” she asks, more gently than before.

You carefully shift your weight from the bed - your legs do not give out and you can support your weight. You nod, swallowing down nerves.

She walks slowly with you out to where the  carriage is waiting, Mother beside it in her travelling cloak,  an unreadable look on her face.

“Mother?” you ask as you approach. You had not expected her to come with you.

Behind you, Mattie tosses the bags to the footman, who grunts from the force.

She looks over your shoulder, inspecting Mattie instead of you.

“It appears as though this affair has become a family outing,” she muses. Her tone sounds almost bitter, but her smile is the usual one, sharp and smug like she knows something no one else ever could.

You glance nervously between her and Mattie. Mattie just pretends like Mother had not spoken, using a footman as a stepping stone to vault herself into the carriage. 

The other footman extends his hand to you, and you hesitate. While you loved both Mattie and Mother, their presence seemed counterintuitive. On the other hand, they also seemed inevitable. 

After a moment, you sigh and take his hand in resignation. 

A vacation is better than nothing.

The three of you travel the countryside with haste. The goal is clear: put as much distance between you and the chateau you call home as possible. The weight of any expectations you had felt upon you lifts within the first hour of travel, as does your mood. Mother and Mattie both notice. Mattie reverts from worried and protective to playful and unrelenting, while Mother only asks the state of your pain every few weeks. 

Your answer is always the same. There is no pain to speak of but…you are not entirely better. 

The pain had disappeared rapidly, within minutes of the initial incident, but ever since then you feel like a part of you is missing. Like you aren’t whole. You can ignore it during the day,  too distracted by the blur of landscape past the carriage windows.

But at night… at night you can feel every bleeding edge of the hole within you. Your chest feels dark and empty, like the sky where stars used to glitter but have long since burnt out. 

You know they can hear you crying at night, but you cannot stop. 

...

1754

As with everything else, the crying fades with time. More time than you care to acknowledge. Eventually they begin bringing you into cities more often with them. You feel revitalized, ready and willing to wreak havoc throughout the streets. You shake off the dull familiarity of your days of piracy and pillaging.  _ It’s not the same _ , you think. You’re killing for fun, not for fame and gold. 

It starts like chaos always does. You kill when you want, feed on whomever you please, giggling and running with Mattie between the shadows of streetlamps with Mother trailing behind, silent and calm. Watching. Nodding in approval whenever you glance back. It’s so strange. At first, you look back to see what she is doing, but the more she gives you approval when you do not ask for it, the more you…  _ need  _ approval. Before you know it, you are looking behind you  _ before _ you kill, making sure it’s okay.

Then she starts intervening, subtle suggestions of where to go, who to tear apart.

Mother insists it’s just for fun, but you begin feel like there’s reason behind each and every kill. Still, you cannot find it in you to care. You kill, and she loves you for it. You are _showered_ in her love,  something you had ached for ever since you had returned home from your voyage at sea. Mother hugs you close, wipes blood from your face with such tender fondness that the ragged edges of the gaping hole inside your chest start to knit themselves back together. 

You remember what feeling whole is like, and the cost is a few worthless human lives.

( _ how could you refuse? _ )

Just as you think you’ve grown accustomed to Mother’s routine, she breaks from it, no longer shadowing you when you embark into towns. Part of you thinks she’s grown tired of the games and the petty fun, but something else, something deeper and  _ guarded _ inside you whispers that she  _ never  _ tires of games. 

She is just playing a different one. 

One  which she has already twisted in her favor, harnessed you in such a way that she no longer needs to be around to control. 

But that is too terrifying a thought to consider; you shove it down into the darkest hole your mind has to offer. Besides, they’re just a few unconnected people, and you’re in control of yourself, not her. What sort of nefarious plan could she have that involved a string of completely random deaths and a completely autonomous right hand? 

You shake your head to rattle the thoughts away. God, all these head games. How was Mother not completely mad? 

You should be looking at this change of pace as a  _ good _ thing. Now your outings would feel less escorted and more free, just you and Mattie. The quality sibling bonding time you’d been waiting for.

You fall into rhythm with Mattie, just like you used to. Travelling with her is almost exactly as it was before, the two of you striking fear into whichever city you decided to visit. It reminded you of Paris. Of Saigon. But she is older now, more powerful. 

Less interested in the kill and more interested in the chase.

You are not so sure. They seem two sides of the same coin to you. 

Plus, you are always tasked with something extra, a name or a description of someone Mother wants dead. She is testing you, and you know it. If you fail, she will know. You’re not sure how, but she will, and you cannot fail her now. Not when she treats you so kindly and trusts you with important tasks.

You just...can’t.

“Mother?” Mattie snaps as she digs through her bag of belongings. “Did you take my cards?” 

Mother appears in the doorway of the dimly lit hostel bedroom, indifferent as she watches on. “Now why would I do that, dear?” she muses, an edge to her voice that both mocks and threatens. 

Mattie turns, and they share a tense look. You don’t understand where the animosity is coming from - maybe it had started while you were gone. 

“Come now, Mircalla,” Mattie says quietly, not breaking her stare from Mother’s dark, cold eyes. “It won’t be hard to come into ownership of a new deck.”

She takes your hand and leads you out into the town.

The first tavern you find is full of loud men and, as Mattie had presumed, plenty of cards. She takes the front door while you quietly hover near the back. In the shadows, you watch her pull her cloak hood down, the glint in her smile sharp and dangerous just before she releases an awful demonic shriek. The walls shake, and people scream, covering their ears and ducking their heads until it subsides into deafening silence.

“Congratulations,” she drawls, sarcasm thick in her voice as she surveys the crowd. “You have all volunteered to be part of our little game.”

No one quite understands what’s going on. They whisper quietly to each other, confused looks on almost every face. 

“There are only two rules,” she continues. “Everyone has to play, and no one gets to leave.”

She gives a sweeping look over the entire room, making sure everyone heard.

“If you refuse, you die. If you try to leave, you die.”

A few larger men stand up, and her eyes light up. She smiles almost gleefully. Your stomach twists in anticipation,  _ hoping _ someone would defy her, and they do not disappoint. All three charge at Mattie, who waits until they are close enough to strike. The first two to reach her first are the least lucky - her fists plunge into their chests, tearing through flesh and bone as if they were just paper. 

The third man stops abruptly, eyes widening as blood drips down their backs from where her balled hands protrude. He spins around and runs directly for the back door.

Your heartbeat quickens, and you bite your lip to fight the grin at the triumphant gleam in his eyes. You wait, letting him believe he can escape. You wait until his is a fraction of a second away, and you use your speed to side step into the doorway, catching him by the neck. The combination of his speed and the abruptness of your movement crushes his throat.

Mattie had been right. The chase is so much better.

Your heart continues thudding in your chest, your hair on end in excited anticipation. You drop his body, and Mattie shakes her fists free, looking around once more. “Anyone else?” she asks hopefully, a mocking smile pulling at her lips.

No one else moves.

“Excellent.”

She wipes her bloody hands on her dress. “Darling, lend your poor sister a hand.”

You grin, fangs brushing against your bottom lip before you dart over in a whirl of speed.

Someone gasps. 

Mattie brushes her still damp finger against your cheek. “You were always so pretty with your fangs out,” she murmurs.

She swipes a deck of cards from the nearest table with casual ease, flipping a few cards around with a deft hand. “Who here wishes to wager me first?”

She tilts her head, waiting, and when she is met with only silence, she feigns disappointment with a fairly believable pout. “Goodness,” she sighs dramatically like a child. “If you won’t play by the rules then neither will I.”

She reaches out and grabs a fistful of a young woman’s hair, yanking her closer and exposing her neck in a fluid motion. Your brows knit together in confusion. Mattie could have killed her several times over by now. You don’t understand the delay until it clicks.

She is giving them  _ time _ . 

Your heartbeat kicks up a notch, excitement pouring through your veins as you scan the crowd.

Immediately, five men stand. One moves so quickly he knocks over his chair. She grins, not letting go of the young woman. “My, my, no need to go all at once, you’ll all get your turn,” she teases, like they actually _want_ it. With her free hand, she points to the table beside her.

The men exchange glances, not quite sure how to back out now that they had stepped up. It ends up that the two men closest to Mattie physically  _ cannot _ back away, and so they face her, grimly determined.

She slaps the deck down hard enough on the table that glasses rattle throughout the inn. “Who wants to cut?”

Neither man moves. They just stare at the deck.

Rolling her eyes, she fans the deck out across the tabletop, so that every card is evenly displayed. “Then just  _ pick _ one,” she instructs. “One at a time or simultaneously, I couldn’t care less.”

The man on the left begins to reach, then hesitates, his eyes scanning the arc of cards. He then selects the card closest to him. The other man selects what would have been the bottom card. Neither one dares look at the card before further instruction.

Mattie’s smile turns wicked. “High card lives, low card dies.”

Where their expressions had been stoic, they are now terrified, hands trembling as they grip the cards. “Show me,” she says firmly.

Neither man moves. Strolling up behind them faster than they can register your presence, you grab their wrists and slam their hands down onto the table, exposing their cards. 

The first man has drawn a Jack. The second has a four.

Mattie looks the second man squarely in the eyes. “Thank you for playing.”

“No, wait-” he pleads but you use your grip still on his arm to pull him into you, biting into his neck.

His agonised scream is echoed around the room.  

You close your eyes and relish the taste of the adrenaline-spiked blood, sharp and sweet on your tongue. It only fuels your own excitement. You drop him and open your eyes, very aware of your heavy breathing and on-edge muscles, ready to act.

Mattie’s lips twist in her proud smile, and she hums her approval as she picks up the cards again, shuffling the deck. “Who’s next?”

Nobody answers.

She frowns, glancing at the man still holding the Jack. Irritably, she plucks the card from his fingers. “What are you still doing here?” she asks.

He blanks.

“... _ Leave _ ?” she snaps more forcefully this time.

He steps once toward the door, gauging her reaction before bolting until he is out of sight. The rest of the tavern watches him, while you and Mattie watch them begin to consider their situation. They look between each other, all pondering the same question. Could they be the next one out the door? Would they dare risk it?

It sends shivers down your spine as they weigh the odds, when they slowly start raising their hands.

You sit out the next few rounds, letting Mattie kill while you watch for any signs of revolt. They weren’t interested in having  _ that _ much fun apparently.

As the pile of bodies adds up, the number of volunteers dwindles. Mattie convinces one soul up to the table, but no one else seems to be taking the bait. The man closest to you looks decidedly  _ not  _ interested in volunteering, and you smirk, clapping him unnecessarily hard on the shoulder. He cringes, but dares not pull away. “I think this one wishes to challenge next.” You grip his shoulder and pull him closer to you, like a gesture between old friends - save for the bones you can feel cracking beneath your fingers. “Don’t you?” you ask low in his ear.

He doesn’t take your hint, stewing in his own fear for a moment longer than you appreciated.

In a split second, you jerk toward him, snapping your teeth together a breath away from his ear. He shouts and flinches away, nodding vigorously. 

You watch him walk up to the table and pick a card, his adversary doing the same. 

He reveals a nine of hearts, and slowly, the other man turns his card over to reveal a nine of diamonds. A look of relief floods both their faces. Mattie only lets it last for a moment, picking up the man with the nine of diamonds by his shirt collar and tossing him across the room like a doll. The sickening sound of bones snapping pierces the air as he collides with the wall.

At the other man’s look of disbelief, she scoffs and waves dismissively. “Hearts top diamonds,” she offers by way of an explanation. “Amateurs.”

You aren’t sure why, but the man looks back to you. You suppose you  _ are _ the one who sent him up there. Smirking, you lift two fingers to your forehead, playfully saluting him before nodding to the door. He doesn’t defy you this time.

Your eyes wander as Mattie shuffles the deck. The crowd is thinning, but the tavern is still more than half full. In the corner, you spot a girl much too young to be in a tavern. Much too young and much too pretty. You tilt your head unconsciously as you inspect her, and when she her eyes flit over to you, she does not look away. She looks mesmerized,  _ unable  _ to break your gaze. 

“Mircalla?” 

You blink and spin around to look at Mattie again, stepping between her and the girl behind you, obstructing her view as subtly as possible.

“Ready?” she asks, a slight frown on her face.

You smile enthusiastically. “Of course.”

You spend the rest of the night stalling, the high of the chase fading beneath your full stomach and punch-drunk colorful cheeks. Unsurprisingly, Mattie grows bored of the game too. She waves for everyone to leave, and with shell-shocked faces they acquiesce, tripping over each other and the scattered bodies to get to the exit before she changes her mind.

You wipe the corners of your mouth with your thumb, inhaling deeply until your stomach feels like it will burst, and then you exhale in a quick burst. 

“If you didn’t wish for me to eat that girl, you could have just said so,” she muses as she sprawls out across the bench seat.

You laugh softly, closing your eyes. “I was…” You ponder the words in your muddled mind. “...implicitly discouraging it,” you murmur, scraping your teeth over your lip and smirking to yourself.

She laughs airily, arching her back off the bench for a fleeting moment. 

“Come now, Kitty,” she beckons to you, thrusting her arm upward and swirling her fingers, not even bothering to lift her head.

You roll your eyes and walk over, pulling her to her feet. 

When you exit, the girl is still there, lingering outside by the door. The moment you meet her gaze, her cheeks flush, and she takes an automatic step closer. You frown.

“Mattie…?” you whisper uncertainly, squeezing her arm to get her attention without looking away from this girl.

“You had quite the affect on her, I see,” she teases quietly.

You glance at her incredulously.

“I ate four people in front of her,” you protest.

Mattie surveys the girl more closely, a smile spreading slowly across her face. 

“You’d be amazed what a girl can forget when the Sacrifice is nigh.”

You groan. “Really?”

“Mother didn’t tell you?” she snorts  bitterly. “That’s why we’re here.”

You grimace at the memory of your last failed attempt to lure a girl.

“She has...alluded to it,” you shrug in exasperation. “I  _ assumed _ it to be further into the future.”

The girl takes a step closer, and you move backwards, shielding yourself a little behind Mattie. 

Mattie chuckles. “Stop cowering from a harmless little lamb, Mircalla.”

Your cheeks flush, and you step out from behind her again. She nudges you with her elbow. “Go on.”

You look into her eyes, and you don’t see...anything. She’s like a strange, brainwashed doll. “...leave us.” you command, mimicking Mother’s threatening voice as best you can. On cue, the girl turns and leaves. You stare blankly after her.

“Am I ill?” you ask in a perplexed exhale, frowning deeply.

Mattie laughs again, tucking your hair behind your ear affectionately. “No such luck, darling. You’ve more wits about you than most.”

“Whilst you were not present for my last attempt at luring, I assure you, it did not unfold as such,” you note, remembering very clearly how frightened your only other target had been when she so much as saw your fangs.

Grinning, Mattie nudges you again. “Previously, you had no age to back you.” She grips your arm and pulls you closer. “And but a fraction of your strength.”

You frown. “My strength could not be much greater.”

She cackles. “After feeding that much? Kitty, you’re near glowing. Can’t you see it?”

You inspect your hands, but see no difference. When you flex them, they don’t feel stronger. Tingling and shaky and muddled by the alcohol still coursing through your blood, yes, but not stronger. “I’m afraid not,” you admit.

In response, she squeezes your arm. It’s gentle at first but the longer she squeezes, the tighter her grip becomes and the sharper the pain is that blossoms from it. You yelp, yanking your arm free and blinking at how easily she released you. Mattie was strong. Stronger than you ever would be.

You look from Mattie’s beaming face down at your hands once more.

“How...strange...” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

…

Once home, Mattie passes out on the couch. You, on the other hand, have a mission. You march right into Mother’s room, still emboldened from your feast. 

“We’re here for the Sacrifice?” you ask, crossing your arms. “And you didn’t think to  _ tell _ me?”

You expect her to dodge the question, redirect blame or pretend it didn’t happen. Instead she surprises you.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes are earnest, her posture uncertain, and you blink.

Something in the back in your mind  _ screams  _ trap, but you feel brave for asking and validated by her apology. You press forward, silencing your doubts.

“What?”

She folds her hands in her lap, jutting her chin out defiantly as she avoids your gaze.

“I wanted to...ease you into it,” she admits, choosing her words carefully. “After what...happened last time.” 

You had not expected her to ever acknowledge the past, both because of your obscene failure and her rather  _ harsh _ response. She sighs, and you are brought back.

“But I waited too long. It was my mistake.”

She looks genuinely contrite, but something feels off, as if something is lingering unspoken after her words. 

“What are you avoiding?”

Her smile is small, but her eyes are big and proud.

“Always intuitive. Deadly  _ and _ smart.”

You automatically smile at her praise before remembering that you should be wary of her right now. You swallow it down.

“I wanted to tell you, but I also...hoped you would join me,” she sighs. “But with all that has happened between us, I didn’t wish to pressure you, especially into something you aren’t yet ready for-”

“I’m ready,” you protest immediately, not even considering the words as they fly from your mouth.

She reaches out and pets your hands soothingly. “Hush, darling. You mustn’t be strong on my account. There will always be more Sacrifices to be had.”

“But I  _ am _ ,” you argue, slightly hurt. “I’ve grown stronger! I haven’t failed you in over a decade.”

She inspects you for a long moment, and your heart stutters a nervous beat.

Slowly, she smiles her twisted smile, stroking under your chin with her knuckle. “Alright. You’ve won this round, little duck. You may join me.” 

She stands and kisses your hair before she exits. In the stillness of the empty room, an unsettling feeling compacts in your stomach.

Killing someone you would be spending significant time with was  _ entirely _ different than killing a stranger.

Were you ready? Did you... _ want  _ to be ready?

You swallow, frowning down at your hands. You definitely do not feel like you’ve won anything.

In a week’s time, you are held to your word. It is the first  _ real _ Sacrifice you participate in and in your weak opinion, you are successful in its mission. You lure the girls Mother tells you to, ignoring the dull gnawing ache in your chest as you leave them knowing it will be their final moment. 

You do not forget their names. Or their faces. Or that dull ache. The girls might leave, but those things stay behind.

Mother does not have to know, though. As far as she is concerned, you did your job, and you did it  _ well,  _ no feelings or mess or weakness. She gets her Sacrifice and you get her validation.

…

1772

Mother bids you farewell at the docks with a kiss goodbye and a tight, unrelenting hug. “You come home to me, Mircalla, you hear me?” she whispers into your hair. “A mother always misses her high priestess.”

You hug her torso with all your might, the thought of leaving her side suddenly inconceivable. You aren’t sure if you have the strength.

Mattie touches the back of your shoulder, and you gently pull away from Mother’s arms. She catches your hands in hers, pressing a piece of paper into your palm. “Make me proud,” she murmurs, squeezing your hands once before releasing them.

She waits ashore as the ship departs, and you wave goodbye from the deck before joining Mattie in the crowd of people.

The journey drags on, but it goes much smoother than you expected. No flashbacks, no night terrors. No seasickness either. Fever spread to a few of the passengers, but it only lessened the burden of finding food.  A few dead bodies in the isolated part of the sick bay didn’t raise any suspicions.

You step off the boat, and the air is thick with unrest. A heavy and metallic chaos exactly as Mother had promised you would find.

You aren’t sure why she wished you to be here, what she expected you to gain from it, but you do not mind. Contributing to the already building chaos just makes you feel alive again.

Plus, checking off the names on your kill list is as easy as getting a drink at a tavern.

...

1775

Mattie comes home one afternoon in a flurry of excitement, snow flying in through the door behind her before she has a chance to fully close it.

“ _ Mircalla _ ,” she shouts breathlessly, her smile already gleaming as she unties the ribbon of her hat. “Violence is afoot, my dear.”

You groan sleepily from the couch, tossing a cushion in her direction. “It’s noontime, sis, must you be so  _ loud _ .”

Laughing, she runs to you, lifting you into her arms and spinning about. “If you  _ woke up _ , you would smell it too,” she insists, dropping you and grabbing hold of your shoulders. 

You inhale deeply, letting the air settle in your lungs. She shakes you impatiently, making you laugh as you lean forward to tap your nose against hers. 

“Well?” she presses.

“I must admit,” you say slowly, “something smells...dark. Why? Can you feel something more?”

Her eyes glint, and she squeezes your arms pointedly. “A fight like you have never lived is upon us. A revolt.”

You scoff and pull your arm from her grip, dropping back onto the couch. “It’s all talk. That’s all it’s been for years. Chaotic politics.”

She shakes her head slow and deliberate, grin widening. “Not this time, kitty cat.”

Mattie knew best. 

The revolt comes, hard and fast and unrelenting, and suddenly there you are, not in a dull discontented nation, but in the midst of the American Revolution.

The anger is thick in the air and the blood pours endlessly. Secretive murders at night do not compare to this, to killing - being  _ expected _ to kill - in broad daylight. A room full of dead bodies has nothing on a field littered with corpses, you find.

Calling it an empowering experience is an understatement. 

And you have no one to thank but Mother. She had sent you here, and you realize now that she had sent you here for  _ this _ very reason. For the experience. The  _ power _ .

…

1783

The war ends, but the stories don’t. Soon whispered rumours carry tales of your exploits, just as they had during your first rampage oh so long ago.

You are left with one option. Change your name or be revealed as more than just a hallucination on a battlefield.

Mattie giggles as she says the name, over and over. “ _ Millarca _ ,” she says again, laughing and touching her fingers to her lips. “Why are you so attached to those letters, darling?”

You shrug. “They have lived with me this long. I cannot abandon them.”

She rolls her eyes. “How poetic.”

You want to stay in the Americas longer, but Mattie grows restless and bored. She begs until you relent, sailing a slow eight week journey back to Britain, and another three weeks to travel across Europe back to Styria. 

When you arrive back at the chateau, Mother is waiting, and you exit the carriage at a brisk walk until you are wrapped in a tight embrace. You inhale her familiar scent, feeling the steady stillness of her ribcage, and it feels like the closest thing to home you’ve had in a long time.

She pulls back to cup your face, beaming at you. “Was it everything you dreamed?”

“You would’ve been proud, Maman,” Mattie drawls as she strolls past, picking at her fingernails as the footmen struggle to carry her bags behind her. “She was a walking massacre.”

Mother strokes your cheek once wither her thumb before releasing you. “Tell me all about it inside,” she murmurs, hand to you back as she gently leads you to follow behind Mattie.

You recount the revolt detail by detail, not a moment lost in your mind. Mother listens with earnest interest, delighted to hear all the success you had with her list, but also in battle. She hums and smirks exactly when you hoped she would, gaze unyielding as she watches you speak.

It makes you more animated, looser with your hands as you excitedly describe the feelings you had experienced in the thick of things, words you hadn’t been able to express until the very moment they were exiting your mouth for her.

…

1784

The remainder of the year is slow.

You attend your second Sacrifice, luring girls more quickly than before. Mother beams, and it feels less wrong this time.

She also trains you more. Different arts and talents you had not known you possessed. It takes years to perfect, but she is patient and you are as studious as you can be. You read to pass the time, learning languages and perfecting accents with Mattie as your backboard. She may not have had a knack for vocabulary, but she had the ear of a bat and would correct you in a millisecond if the syllable did not match.

Mother sent you on countless errands all over the continent, and you diligently completed them, killing in whatever means she requested. Brazenly in her name or quietly in the night. And you always returned without argument or concern, happy to return to more training and affection.

That is until one year your return to Styria is paved through France, and the air has a recognizable spark to it. You can hear a familiar tune of revolt softly beginning to ring through the air. 

Mattie lets you stay, promising to give Mother your best until your return.

…

_ 1789 _

The American and French Revolutions had an eerie similarity to them, you found. Their rise was near perfect images of one another, both rooted in discontent at neglectful patriarchy, of taxes they could not pay. Just two groups of people screaming at deaf ears until words were not enough, because words couldn’t feed empty stomachs or protect families when it mattered.

The breaking points were equally unsurprising. You can only shove someone so many times before they shove back.

With so much fear and anger and confusion, any hesitation melted away as the rioters joined together to take the Bastille fortress in Paris in an attempt to arm themselves for the fight ahead.

The chaos only grows from there.

You have no interest in picking a side. Bloodshed is bloodshed to you, and messy revolutions prove rich pickings. Still, you find the revolutionaries to be an interesting bunch. You almost lament over how easily they fall. How consistently they drop. 

Something about a lack of ability and lack of weapons just takes the fun away for you. You understand now why Mattie came to appreciate the chase more than the kill. You decide that if they are dedicated to their cause til death, they might as well die fighting their enemy rather than at your hand.

You happen upon an arrondissement in flames, soldiers taking to the streets as rioters flee the scene, pockets full of food and currency. You climb the closest building and passively watch them from your rooftop perch. A small group of revolutionaries stay behind to fight while they others continue their retreat, but this group is young. Their technique is horrible, their leadership is  _ laughable _ , and you’re not surprised when they have to turn tail and flee with their counterparts.

You follow their retreat, skipping rooftop to rooftop, somewhat taken by their irrepressible determination in the face of their utter incompetence. 

When you reach their hideout, you spot some soldiers closing in. 

You sigh.

You can’t root for the revolutionaries and then  _ not _ help. The soldiers flank the unsuspecting and inexperienced insurgents, blocking them from their safe house a mere three feet away. You take a few lazy jogging steps before jumping off, taking in the confused soldiers before you.

Their confusion quickly morphs to fear as you gleefully wrench them apart with your bare hands. There is a grin on your face and a bounce in your step as you turn to see the revolutionaries staring at you. 

“Vive le Tiers État,” you try, unconvincingly at best.

An uneasy silence settles over the crowd as they glance between you and the dismembered remnants of their enemies at your feet. Then, suddenly, cheers echo through the stagnant air as they beckon you inside. There isn’t much room or light, but there is diluted wine and hearty introductions. You recognize they are trying to welcome you into their ragged little band, as if you weren’t a slight-looking teenage girl who had literally torn men asunder moments before, whose hands drip with their blood until someone thinks to offer you a rag.  

You suppose desperate people will align themselves with anyone - anything - who can add weight to their side of the scales.

…

They have information you do not, knowledge of places with nobility to fight, armies to take on. You follow their very primitive lead, but the moment any combat breaks out, you are suddenly in front. It’s hardly  _ surprising  _ \- you are an outsider after all -  but it’s certainly not fun to be their leader without actually doing much leading.

You slowly assert your command, teaching them better fighting techniques, more intricate strategies. War is an art, just like any other, and they needed to learn that as much as you needed to share it. Before long, they cede to your leadership, allowing you to direct their raids, their tactics, their targets. It is a powerful feeling. You attack then fade into the background, into the shadows. 

…

The next city you raid has a major nobility mansion at the heart of it. It’s like Christmas to see  _ how many _ guards are on the grounds. You have learned the art of subtlety now. You can’t kill dozens of men with your bare hands when witnesses are around. You have to fight like them. With weapons and with caution.

It turns out, you might even like it better.

The dance of the fight makes your heart pound. Glimpsing the fear in someone’s eyes as they watch you catch their bayonet with your hand. It’s so intimate, even when it lasts but a few seconds. Guard after guard falls until you and your band make it into the house, confronted by a chaotic scene as the last men of the duke’s contingent try to spirit him away.

You aren’t worried. You have all the time in the world to find them.

Your friends fan out without needing your instruction, searching rooms about the house and killing all who resist.

You probably should have known something was off when you barged into the dining room to find a woman very much awake and very much enthralled by the commotion going on outside, head hidden behind the curtains. You  _ should _ have paused at her lack of reaction to your loud entrance, but you are too distracted by the slit of her night clothes. How the more intently she peers out the window, the more she leans forward, the further up her leg it threatens to open. You grin smugly as you take a step into the room. 

“Well, well, someone’s up past their bedtime.”

She jumps in surprise, gasping and pulling back from the window. Your grin broadens when you see her face for the first time. Young and beautiful and just what you needed. “Go,” you order the others without taking your eyes off her. She doesn’t look away from you either. “Find the others.”

“Are you sure?” someone asks. 

You take a few steps forward, and the woman timidly mirrors you backward until she hits the wall. She exhales sharply as you advance into her personal space. You tip your chin up, leaning in just enough for her to wonder exactly what you’re doing. Her lips part, eyes darting down at your mouth and back up, palms pressing closer to the wall. “I’ve got this covered,” you murmur.

They scatter behind you, and, when the room is finally silent, you take a step closer. The fabric of her nightshirt brushes against your legs. “Now, tell me. What was so fascinating out there?” you ask smoothly, your voice an entrancing mix of encouraging and threatening.

She presses her lips together and glances back toward the window as she considers. You wait and wait, but she doesn’t answer you, disobedient and foolhardy.

( _ recklessly brave _ )

The adrenaline spike in your blood has you on edge. You are high, ready to get higher, and here was this pretty girl not doing everything you say. It is both wildly tempting and intriguing. You cannot say you are in a patient mood, especially with you close enough that you can smell her blood pumping, but you allow her another moment. One single, last chance to answer or pay the consequences. She opens her mouth to answer, then hesitates, biting her lip. What a teasing little girl.

Growling, you surge forward, hand to her throat, and shove her against the wall hard enough for it to echo.

She grimaces, but does not cry out. Your stomach jolts in excitement.

“Faster, darling,” you prompt, grinning at her threateningly, flashing the edges of your teeth. “You wouldn’t want to keep me waiting.”

You lean in slowly, brushing your nose against her jaw for a ghost of a second, and her heartbeat stutters. “But you can always find that out the hard way,” you murmur under your breath, pulling back enough to gauge her understanding.

She holds your gaze for but a moment, quickly closing her eyes tightly as if she cannot look at you while she answers. “The riot,” she exhales, waiting a moment before opening her eyes again.

A smirk curls on your lips. “Attracted to the fight, Miss?” you tease, tightening your hold around her throat. What you expect is quick denial. What you  _ get _ however, is an intake of breath and silence.

You lean into her slowly, brushing past her lips slow enough to get your own heart racing, past her cheek to settle by her ear. “Or the idea of joining?” you murmur into it.

When she does not answer still, you dip a little lower, biting the flesh of her neck just above her thundering pulse.

“I’m not sure,” she says breathily, chest still tight with air she refuses to release, “to what you are referring.”

You aren’t quite sure what to do with that, for it sounds  _ almost _ like a challenge. For a moment, you pull back, blinking at her.

She must take this as weakness. Or, at the very least, a way out, for she immediately continues.

“Take me with you,” she whispers desperately.

You blink again.

“What?”

She twists her fingers around your sleeve, not in an attempt to free herself, but an attempt to emphasize her sincerity. It’s almost as if she’s pulling you  _ closer _ . “I want to go with you.”

If this is a diversion tactic, it’s certainly working. Your grip on her loosens, and, for a moment, you cannot come up with a single thing to say. 

“Please,” she tries again.

“I cannot say I have ever been propositioned into kidnapping by the...would-be hostage.” You frown, looking her over. “Why?”

She shrugs so nonchalantly despite her still obvious fear and discomfort. “I believe in what is being fought for.”

You do not think repeating your question would be polite, but quite frankly, you cannot stop the question from coming out of your mouth a second time. “Why?”

“I am not blind to injustice merely because my father is a politician,” she replies indignantly. 

You search her eyes for any wavering conviction and find none. You know in your gut you shouldn’t say what you are thinking about saying, but you are also partially curious to see how this disaster will unfold.

“On one condition,” you warn her, releasing her neck. 

Her face lights up. “Truly?”

You glare at her. “You must follow my cues until we return home. Am I clear?”

She nods vigorously, hopping excitedly in place. “I must pack a bag at once.”

You blink. “Now is not the time for jest.”

She furrows her brows, cocking her head to the side. “Jest?”

You laugh darkly, shaking your head. “No, none of that. You don’t get a  _ bag _ . You’re a  _ prisoner of war _ , girl.”

“I asked to come,” she protests.

You smirk at her, nodding mockingly. “Yes, of course, as general of their armies, I would be praised for not only  _ letting _ the duke’s daughter live, but also for  _ accepting  _ her ever polite request to join us!” Your smirk falls. “It sounds just dim-witted enough to get us both killed.”

She frowns. “Why do it, then?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the sound of approaching footsteps cuts you short. You yank her forward by her wrist and spin behind her, pulling your dagger to her throat. She gasps. Where you have her wrist bent behind her back, you squeeze as reassuringly as possible. 

You suppose she understands, for when your men appear in the doorway, her struggling ceases. You smile at them. “Looks like we’ll be leaving with more than we thought.”


End file.
